


everything has grown

by smallbeans



Series: the weight of the world (is pulling me down) [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Deputy Derek, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Derek POV, Fluff and Angst, Hospitals, Hurt Stiles, Librarian Stiles, M/M, Orphan Stiles, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 21:40:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14777714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallbeans/pseuds/smallbeans
Summary: Stiles leaves Beacon Hills after his father's life machine is turned off, riddled with guilt and grief at being the one who chose to turn it off. Five years later, he's called back when Melissa is in hospital and is the one who can save her. After donating one of his kidneys in a kidney transplant, Derek offers to take Stiles home and look after him during his recovery.





	everything has grown

**Author's Note:**

> Confession: I suck at summaries.

****Derek knows pain. He knows grief and heartache and guilt. He knows what it's like to have his family, his _world_ , ripped away from him, snatched out of his grasp and taken away for all of eternity. He knows what it's like to feel numb and in pain at the same time. He knows what it's like, waiting in that hospital room, to feel the unshakable cold chill that settles down your spine when you're waiting for that one word to confirm it all.

The only difference is, Derek lost everyone all at once. He lost his parents, his siblings. And while they were gone, he still had Laura. He wasn't _completely_ alone.

But, Stiles had it different. He'd already had it once, and then he had it again. He watched his mother disappear before his very young, very innocent eyes, and it scarred him like an invisible wound, one that refuses to heal. And then, only ten years later, it happened again.

John Stilinski was on life support for six weeks before they turned it off. Stiles was forced to make the decision, and he made it. And while no one blames him, while no one judges him for his choice, Stiles couldn't look anyone in the eye. Supernatural abilities didn’t matter. John was shot in the head, he survived but he was in a coma with no signs of coming out, and Stiles was promised if he did somehow wake up, he would be physically and mentally damaged beyond repair. 'Brain dead', they said. They didn’t have the choice of the bite, the damage was already done. John Stilinski died from a bullet to the head, and left his 17 year old son behind.

Derek knows that kind of pain. The kind of inward, turmoil grief that eats you alive like a parasite. A feeling you can't explain, you can't describe and one that no one understands unless they've gone through it.

He shouldn't have been surprised when Stiles moved away. Barely two days after they buried his father in the ground, meters beside his mother, Derek heard that through Scott that Stiles was gone. The Stilinski house was empty, the key slid through the McCall letterbox with a hand-written note pleading for Melissa to deal with the house, to do whatever she wanted with it as long as it didn't involve Stiles. The barely-adult boy was crushed, lost and alone when he jumped on the bus out of Beacon Hills, leaving his friends, his home, and his Jeep behind.

He doesn't come home for five years.

 

Derek gets the call at half ten on Friday night: Melissa has been rushed to hospital.

He cuts off Scott's hysteria, telling him he's on his way before he ends the call. His heart races the entire drive there, Erica and Boyd riding in the back. He speeds through red lights, the roads empty and deserted in the cold night of the sleepy town.

Scott is pale and pacing when Derek and the pack get there, tracking a depression into the emergency room floor. The moment he looks up to meet Derek's eyes, the older alpha can see the panic and fear in the normally warm and kind eyes.

"Scott," he says as they march forward, "what happened?"

"My mom— she— t-there was an a-accident—" Scott stammers, breath hitching, hands flapping like they’re jerking violently.

Derek grabs the hyperventilating adult by the shoulders, "Scott, _breathe_."

Scott chokes a shaking breath, eyes glossy with unshed, swelling tears.

"Tell us what happened," Derek repeats, nodding as if to reassure Scott that they’re there, that everything is going to be okay.

"The doctor hasn’t told me anything," Scott murmurs, swallowing so audibly Derek could even hear it without enhanced hearing. "They. . . she’s still out there and I— I can’t do anything, Derek. What if—"

"No, Scott," Lydia steps up, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Do not do that to yourself. We don’t know anything yet. It’s too early for 'what if’s'."

Scott nods - a small, jerky nod. He blinks rapidly, as if to chase away the tears but it only squeezes them out, rolling pitifully down his red cheeks. The recently 23 year old is barely keeping it together, shifting from foot to foot like a craving drug addict. His eyes are flickering down every corridor, head following every sound of doors and voices. Derek grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him into one of the plastic chairs.

"Scott, calm down," he says. He knows it’s futile, and probably unreasonable, because how can he honestly ask and expect Scott to be calm _now_? "You’re mother is going to be okay. Melissa is strong, don’t underestimate her."

"I know," Scott chokes, head hanging low. Derek doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s crying. "I know. I just—. . ."

"I know," Derek echoes. He sits down next to Scott, resting a hand on his shoulder. The true-alpha sobs into his hands, face hidden. His shoulders shake and tremble from the force, the plastic legs faintly rattling on the floor. He can _taste_ the raw emotion spilling from him, the salt of his tears and the whine in his chemo-signals.

So much has changed between the dynamics of the pack. Since the reconstruction of the Hale house, Scott and Derek have become aligned alphas, paired and equal. Lydia is the pack second, but the majority of the time manages to make the commands and formate the plans. Isaac, Erica and Boyd live at the house with Derek all the time, the three of them being the only members that aren't at college or working out of town. Lydia and Scott are still studying, Lydia in New York and Scott in his last year at veterinary school. The pack has flourished and grown impossibly strong and close. They spend (minus Lydia, who is only home a few times a year for Christmas, birthdays and summer) every weekend together, watching movies and eating junk food like a group of teenagers. Derek sometimes has to remind himself that his pack aren't 18 anymore, but instead all 22 or 23 years old. They're adults now, but sometimes they resemble nothing of the sort.

Hours pass. A nurse comes to tell them Melissa is in surgery and they can go home for a while they’re waiting, but Scott refuses and no one is willing to argue.

Scott is no longer sobbing when a doctor dressed in blue scrubs and a white coat approaches them. 

"Scott," Derek says, nudging the alpha who’s head still lays in his hands. The moment he hears his name, Scott lifts his head and scrambles to his feet.

"My mom—"

The doctor holds a hand up. "Melissa made it. She just got out of surgery with a minor concussion and bruising to her ribs. What we are worried about is her kidneys. They ruptured during the accident. We've got her stable now, but if we don’t get her another kidney in the next six hours, she is not going to make it."

The doctors words are brutal and straight to the point, his tone soft but the words he speak are almost desperate.

Scott actually whimpers, legs shaking visibly underneath him so hard Derek wouldn’t be surprised if he is about to fall down on his ass. Derek stands, stepping up behind him and placing a hand on comfort on his shoulder. It’s small, but it’s grounding.

"She. . ." Scott chokes, like a wounded animal. His mouth opens and closes. "My mom—. . ."

"We’re looking as hard as we can, Scott," the doctor reassures. "I promise you, no one in this hospital is going to let your mom down without a damn good fight."

Scott nods shakily. Derek knows he’s too shocked to speak. "C-can I see her?"

The doctor talks a moment to reply, looking around the group. Eventually, he nods, "She’s in a private room now. Only two in at a time, the rest of you wait outside the room. There will be chairs for you to sit down while you wait."

They follow the doctor, Isaac wrapping an arm around Scott’s shoulders and Lydia on his other side, supporting him while they walk.

Derek walks behind with Erica and Boyd, and asks the pair, "Has someone phoned Allison?"

Erica nods. "Lydia did. She’s trying to get back from France now."

"Good," Derek replies.

Melissa is in a decent size private room. Through the window, he can see the bed in the middle, the dozens of machines and equipment around the bed. There’s cushioned chairs on either side, a wheel-able table standing under the window, the blinds drawn closed to block out the cold winter evening.

Derek finally looks down at his phone to check the time, and reads **02:36 AM**.

They’ve been there for four hours.

Derek notices Scott standing by the door, staring through the small window above the handle. Lydia and Isaac are still by his side, speaking in hushed voices that Derek does his best not to ease into.

Lydia turns to them, walking over as Isaac leads Scott inside. Derek drops down in one of the chairs next to Erica and Boyd, Lydia sitting opposite them.

"Isaac’s going in with him first," she says. "Do you guys know your blood types?"

"We can’t give her one of our kidneys," Erica replies.

Lydia frowns, eyes turning hard. "It’s Melissa, Erica. Its Scott’s _mom_ —"

"Lydia, we can’t because we’re wolves," Derek explains. "The doctors can’t operate on us here, we’ll heal too fast and if we heal during the surgery. . ."

"There must be something you can do," Lydia says, _pleads_.

Derek shakes his head. "Deaton might have something, but it will hurt us, possibly kill us and the chances our kidneys will work inside Melissa, a _human_ , is unlikely. Lydia, you know this. We can’t do it."

Lydia nods, eyes glistening.

"We want to," Derek says, because they do. He knows Isaac, Erica and Boyd and himself wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to save Melissa, to give her something of theirs to save her, but it’s just not possible.

After a while, the door to Melissa’s room opens and Isaac steps out.

He meets all of their eyes before saying, "Lydia, I think you should go in."

Lydia frowns, standing up, "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," Isaac shakes his head. "I just think he needs you right now."

Lydia nods and briefly touches Isaac’s arm as she passes him to go into the hospital room, the door shutting softly behind her.

Isaac sits down in her place, dropping heavily into the chair.

"How. . ." Erica clears her voice. "How is she?"

Isaac shakes his head. "It’s bad. Scott. . . she’s not doing well."

"What if they don’t find her another kidney," Erica whispers. No one says the answer, but they all know what it is.

"They’ll find her one," Derek assures weakly. _They have to find her one_ , goes unsaid. Melissa is just as much pack as Scott is now.

"What about the bite?" Isaac asks.

Derek shakes his head. "She’ll be too weak. The bite might not take."

"But there’s a chance," Isaac deflects.

Derek shakes his head again, refusing to get frustrated. "There’s a bigger chance of getting her a kidney."

Scott is in the room for a little over an hour. He comes out with Lydia when a nurse goes in. The alpha looks no better than he did when he went in: bloodshot eyes, quivering lips, his suffocating chemo-signals howling with pre-grief.

"Scott. . ." Erica murmurs, standing up.

The alpha just shakes his head, eyes filled to the brim with tears. "I’m gonna lose her."

"No," Erica shakes her head, pulling him into a hug. "You’re not, Scott. You’re not going to lose her."

"She’s not going to make it," Scott whispers, voice cracking into Erica’s shoulder.

"Don’t think like that," Erica murmurs back. " _Please._ "

Derek sits with his elbows on his knees, watching his partner alpha and his beta.

They hear the sound of shoes squeaking on the polished floor and Derek looks up to the end of the corridor. There he stands, clothes black and dirty boots skidding on the clean hospital as he breaks to a stop. He looks one way, and then towards them.

Derek's heart drops. The world feels as though it has stopped spinning, that time has stopped.

"Oh my God," he hears someone say, but is sounds far away, like an echo in a tunnel.

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees Scott moving out of Erica's arms.

Derek can't believe what he's seeing.

It’s Stiles.

He doesn’t have a moment to process who is standing in front of him before Stiles is running, flying down the corridor with the grace he didn't own years ago. Scott steps forward, legs giving out just as Stiles reaches him, collapsing into the waiting arms of the lost boy.

Stiles is holding him, holding him up, arms wound around Scott so tight Derek can see the tendons and veins popping up in his bony hands. Stiles' face is a morph of shock and fear, eye wide and blinking rapidly.

"You're okay, Scott," he's mumbling, arms tightening around the alpha, "It's gonna be okay."

Stiles' eyes meet everyone's, flicking to each member until they finally settle on Derek. They're gone a moment later, and Derek see's his upper body move as he takes in a large breath.

Him and Scott break apart, Stiles keeping him hands on Scott as he pushes him gently into a plastic waiting room chair. He looks up at the group, "What's happened? Have they said anything?"

"What do you know?" Lydia replies, and Derek is finding it hard to believe that no one was freaking out about Stiles being home. Being _right here_.

"Melissa was in a accident. That’s all Scott told me," Stiles says, "I got here as soon as I could."

His voice has changed. It's deeper, older, more mature with a slight rasp that wasn't there before. Derek wants to know what else has changed. 

"Minor concussion and trauma to her chest. Nothing major, but she needs a kidney replacement," Lydia states, and Scott jerks like every word is a hit, physically hurting him. "They're trying to find one now."

"Can none of you do it?"

Lydia sighs sadly, shaking her head, "We don't have the same blood type. We've all checked."

"Where is she now?"

"In there," Isaac says, nodding towards her room door. "We'll be able to see her soon, they've just gone in to look at her vitals."

Stiles nods, but his eyes show he is far away, deep in a spiralling thought. Derek doesn't have another moment to take him all in before Stiles' eyes are catching something at the end of the hall behind them.

"Dr Jones!" He calls, sprinting away from them and down the hall. The pack watch him go, speaking to the familiar doctor that only he seems to recognise. They watch them talk, watched Stiles' lips move, his pale face losing more colour. The doctor places a hand on Stiles' arm, and Stiles looks over to them, his whiskey eyes shining with tears.

Stiles looks back at the doctor, and the group watch him nod firmly before being guided further down the corridor out of sight.

"What's he doing?" Isaac asks.

"Do you really think we have any idea?" Derek replies cooly, eyes trained on the space at the end of the corridor where Stiles was moments ago. He could have listened in, and now he wishes he had done.

"How did he. . ." Lydia starts, sounding breathlessly shocked. "Scott, you. . . you phoned him?"

Derek hears Scott curse breathlessly behind him, and he turns around in time to see Isaac and Lydia pushing Scott into a plastic waiting chair again. Isaac takes the turn of sitting by his side, rubbing his back and murmuring gentle words in his ear, offering as much comfort as they can, the shock of his mothers situation taking over him again.

Derek stands, arms crossed over his chest, eyes keeping being drawn back to the corridor. Stiles flashes in his mind, the image blurry and unfocused, like he’s seeing it through an old camera lens.

Stiles is here. Stiles is _here_ , with them, with him. Stiles is back, he’s home, and he’s _okay_.

It's a while before anything else happens. Derek is so lost inside his own head, his own thoughts because it's taking far more time and effort to process that Stiles is _home_ than he ever expected. He's so close yet so far.

Derek wants to hate him. He wants to hate him for leaving and not saying goodbye, but he can't because he understands. Stiles was young, he was alone and hurting and getting out was the only and best option for him. Derek just wishes he would have told him, because Derek would have gone with him. Anywhere and everywhere, he would have stayed by Stiles' side, made sure he was okay. Not knowing anything hurt almost as much as the realisation that Stiles really didn't say goodbye. Derek just wanted a phone call, a text, a postcard. _Something_ to show that he was alive and well.

They got nothing for five years, and Derek had convinced himself for so long that he was angry about it. But now, now Stiles is here in flesh and bone, Derek has lost the energy to be mad.

He's so inside his own head he doesn't realise how much time has passed and almost misses Stiles coming marching back into the waiting room.

The human is dressed in a pair of faded black skinny jeans and a black dusty jacket, his long, thin limbs moving like glimpses of shadows in the white room. His eyes flick to every single one of them, not lingering a moment long enough to meet their gazes before they land on Scott.

He moves silently, everyone watching, as he crouches down in front of Scott, his hand resting on the other boys knee.

"Scott," he says. When the other male doesn’t move, Stiles adds, "Scott, look at me."

Scott looks up, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. A single tear rolls down his flushed cheek.

"Me and your mom have the same blood type," Stiles starts, and everyone suddenly knows what he’s talking about, what he's going to say: if Stiles and Melissa have the same blood type, Stiles can donate one of his kidneys. "You need to sign to give your consent."

Scott’s face is an open canvas of raw emotion. "Stiles. . ."

"Scott, you’re mom isn’t going to survive the next few hours. I can give her a kidney _now_ , or you can watch her die in that hospital bed," Stiles says, and Derek can see everyone taken back by the bluntness, the brutality of his words eased with his soft, stern tone. "I want to do this, Scott. She’s. . ."

 _She’s my mom too_ , goes unsaid, but everyone hears it.

Stiles blinks away his tears. "You’ve already lost one parent," he says, "I’m not going to let you lose another."

Scott stares into Stiles' eyes, and after a moment, he nods. "Okay."

"Okay," Stiles echoes, nodding back and standing up. "Come on, you need to sign something."

"Stiles, are you. . ."

Stiles nods, no sign of hesitance or fear in his face. "I’m sure."

"Thank you," Scott whispers, tears falling some more. " _Fuck_ , thank you."

Stiles' lips quirk up in a slight, lopsided smile. "Come on. We're wasting time."

The pack watch them go down the hall and stand at the nurses desk, Stiles leaning on the top and Scott signing the papers the nurse hands him.

Derek watches, stunned that this is happening. Stiles has barely been back for half an hour and already, he's going under the knife for one of them. It all feels too surreal, too much like a dream.

The pair are by the nurses desk for a while, and a doctor comes to join them a few minutes before Scott is yanking Stiles into another hug, their arms so tight around each other that Derek wouldn't be surprised if they couldn't breathe.

He can't resist the temptation to listen in anymore.

"Thank you," he hears Scott weeping. "Thank you."

"You'd do the same for me if you could," Stiles replies, and Derek detects the rasp again, low and chalky.

"I would," Scott whispers, voice fragile. "I really would. I wish I could have."

Stiles pulls back then, and Derek sees the tears shining in his eyes under the phosphorescent strobe lights.

He wonders then, for the first time, if Scott still spoke to Stiles. It’s been five years, as far as Derek knew, none of the pack had any contact with their long-lost pack mate. All ties had been cut when he fled after his fathers death. Had Scott really not told them?

Derek watches them, trying to take as much of Stiles is as he can, but his mind is reeling too fast. He can’t process that Stiles is here fast enough before him and Scott are breaking apart fully and Stiles is disappearing down the hall again.

Scott walks back slowly, Derek’s heart tugging like the individual strings are being yanked as he watches Stiles move away, leaving them again. Leaving _him_.

Derek couldn’t explain his feelings for Stiles before the human left. He was 17, Derek was 22. It would have been messy. Derek didn’t even know if Stiles wanted him then, if he even knew what he wanted in general. Derek had felt a loss when Stiles had left. It had felt more than him just leaving, it had felt like death. To Derek, it had felt like both John and Stiles had died. Sometimes, he regretted not doing something with Stiles before he left. He sometimes wished he’d at least told him, so Stiles could have let him know _something_. The not knowing made him feel worse than he’d ever imagined.

And now, Stiles is _back_. He’s so close, just inches away, yet he’s so far, like an echo in a tunnel. Derek feels like he’s reaching out, his fingertips brushing the skin moments before he’s ripped away again, out of reach, out of sight.

He’s felt this way for a long time. A long five years, but now it feels all to real.

"Scott."

He looks up at the sound of Lydia’s voice, piercing and borderline hostile. Scott is walking back towards, red eyes first the first time clear.

"Are you going to explain?"

Scott rubs the back of his neck, looking around the narrow hallway. "Uh. . . Explain what?"

" _Stiles!_ Explain _Stiles!_ " Lydia practically shouts, motioning to the now empty hallway.

Scott’s eyes dart around. He stammers nervously. "I, uh—. . . I called him."

"We didn’t know you still spoke to him," Isaac says.

"It wasn’t much. Minimal contact, a few messages every few months. He sent postcards sometimes," Scott shrugs, and Derek wants to growl because he’s acting like speaking to Stiles is no big deal. "I couldn’t just let him go, guys. He was. . . he’s family."

"He was our family too," Erica replies, and she sounds kind of choked up.

Scott looks at her sadly. "He asked about you guys. He asked how Beacon Hills was, if everyone was okay. He still cares."

"You should have told us," Lydia snaps.

"No, I shouldn’t have," Scott replies confidently, shaking his head. "He left because he needed to get away. If you’d known, you guys wouldn’t have left him alone. Stiles needed the space."

"You should have told us he was okay," Derek says, and he’s surprised when his voice comes out as weak as he does. "It’s been five years, Scott. We had no idea where he was, if he was okay, if he was _alive_. You should have told us that."

"How was I meant to tell you that without you guys finding him?" Scott asks, looking at every one of them. "Without you doing exactly what you’re doing right now?"

"Because at the time, knowing he was okay would have been enough," Derek hisses, eyes tinting red with anger. Scott doesn’t look intimidated, but he does look sorry.

"I’m sorry," he confesses, looking at them all once again. "I am, guys. I just. . . he got in contact with me. He didn’t want any of you to know."

"Why?" Isaac asks.

Scott shakes his head. "I don’t really know. He. . . I didn’t want to push back then."

Lydia doesn’t look convinced, or sympathetic. "It’s been five years, Scott. _Five years!_ After all this time, you didn’t think to mention anything?"

"Lydia, leave it," Erica warns.

Lydia looks at her accusingly. "Leave it? You can’t seriously be letting this go?"

"We’re not," Boyd adds. "Now just isn’t the time."

Lydia looks like she wants to argue, but for once, she doesn’t. She drops down into one of the chairs with a huff, crossing her arms and looking away from the group. Derek leaves her to it. Erica and Boyd are right: now isn’t the time.

"So he’s doing it then," Isaac says, nodding down the hall. "He’s giving her his kidney."

Scott nods. "Yeah. They’ve done all the tests to make sure he’s healthy enough."

"That’s good," Isaac smiles, touching his shoulder. "That’s good, Scott."

Scott nods. "Yeah. She’s. . . she’s going to be okay."

 

Three hours later, a pair of nurses come into the hallway of Melissa’s room. They flash smiles at the wolves sitting outside before going inside.

Derek hears Scott wake instantly, the alpha having fallen asleep at his mothers bedside.

"What’s wrong?" He hears him ask, urgency in his tone. Derek stands up and see’s the nurses’ dismantling Melissa from the machines through the window. "What are you doing? What’s going on?"

"It’s alright, love," one of them answers. "We’re just taking her so she’ll be ready for surgery. They’re almost done with your friend. The sooner we complete the transplant, the better the results."

Derek steps into the doorway, heart racing at the mention of Stiles.

"How’s he doing?" He asks before he can stop himself.

One of the nurses looks up at him and smiles kindly. "We don’t know, but if there was anything wrong, we wouldn’t be prepping Melissa now."

Derek nods, figuring thats as good as he’s going to get. The nurses wheel Melissa out, and Derek’s stomach twists at the sight of the woman who’s been like a mother to the entire pack for over five years looking so pale and gaunt, her eyes sunken and bruised. Scott follows them to the door, but Lydia steps up to stop him going any further. He watches his mother leave with wide, fearful eyes.

"It’s going to be okay," Isaac assures him again. "You heard them. It’s all fine."

Derek has to force himself to believe the beta. He hates hospitals as much as the next person. They make him feel queasy, tingling with a discomfort that chills his bones and irritates his skin.

He just has to trust that the nurses were right. Stiles is fine. Stiles is strong, he reminds himself. Stiles won’t go down without a fight.

A nurse comes walking back, her purple scrubs a splash of colour in the white hallway.

"They’re going to be another few hours. Why don’t you guys go home for a while, shower, get something to eat. You all need sleep, you’ve been here all night," she says, smiling kindly.

Lydia checks the time on her watch. "She’s right. It’s almost half-eight."

"Maybe we should go," Erica adds. "We should get some rest, some food. We’re no use here."

Scott’s face has gone impossibly pale. "What? No! We can’t. . . we can’t leave them—"

"We’re not leaving them, Scott," Isaac interrupts. "We need sleep and food. Think how angry your mother is going to be if she finds we were sitting here when she would want us to be taking care of ourselves too. Stiles would agree with that too."

He adds the last sentence after a pause, his voice suddenly small and quiet, like he’s unsure he can say it.

Scott’s eyes are brimmed with shiny tears again, but he looks defeated. He closes his eyes and hunches his shoulders. Isaac is hugging him before he lets out his first sob.

Lydia turns to the nurse. "Thank you. Can you call us when they get out?"

"Of course," the nurse nods. "It will be a few hours yet. I just figured I should let you know you can go."

Lydia smiles. "Thank you."

The nurse leaves, and Derek looks at his pack. They’re tired, haggard in their clothes from the day before. He hates to leave, he hates to leave Stiles and Melissa here when so much can go wrong, but the nurse and his pack are right. They need rest, they need to take care of themselves too.

"I feel sick," Scott admits, swallowing convulsively. He’s stopped crying now, but he still looks impossibly fragile. "I. . ."

Lydia takes his hand, crouching down in front of him. "It’s fine, Scott. You heard them. Stiles and Melissa are going to be fine."

"But. . . what if—"

"No," Lydia interrupts strongly. "Don’t do that to us, don’t do that to yourself. You can’t think like that."

Scott nods, and Lydia rubs his hand in hers.

Derek’s phone _dings_ and he looks down.

"It’s Parrish," he announces. "He’s been working on the crash. He’s going to come and tell us what happened."

Scott nods. Derek is surprised Scott isn’t more curious about how his mother got here, but the swirling panic of his mothers survival is rightfully consuming. Derek didn’t even think to wonder if it was something supernatural that caused the accident - it’s been so long since anything happened. The past five years have been surprisingly quiet. They had a few bad runs the first year after Stiles left, with omega’s trampling in and terrorising the town before the pack could get to them, and witches who wanted to turn Beacon Hills into a walking sacrificial land, but nothing major since. It’s been quiet, and sometimes Derek feels like it’s _too_ quiet. But then, he’s reminded that no one dreams of trespassing into Hale land anymore, not since their pack conjoined and they became impossibly strong. Word has carried amongst the supernatural world about the Hale-McCall pack in Beacon Hills, the pair of alpha’s with the non-traditional pack of beta’s and banshees and hunters.

"Tell him to meet us at the house," Lydia says, standing up.

Derek nods, typing the reply.

"And tell him to bring pizza’s!" Erica adds.

Derek types that too.

 

Derek thought they were going to have to drag Scott out of the hospital when they started to leave.

Eventually, they made it back to the house that stands like a glooming shadow in the dark woods. The winter months have kept the woods haunting and cold, the sun barely beginning to rise above the mountains in the distance.

Parrish turns up a few minutes after they do, looking both sharp and flustered in his uniform. The pack are all in the large living room of the new Hale house, squeezes on sofa’s and on cushions on the floor. Parrish walks straight in, coming to stand in the archway.

Erica jumps up when she see’s the boxes of steaming fresh pizza.

"You angel!" She groans, snatching the boxes before retreating back to her spot on the floor next to Boyd. The smell of fresh, greasy pizza fills the living room and everyone but Scott and Lydia devour the slices.

"Morning," Parrish says, voice light with a chuckle. "How is she?"

"She’s getting her kidney transplant, that’s why the nurses told us to come home" Lydia replies. After a minute, she adds, "Stiles is back."

Parrish’s eyes widen comically. His jaw loosens and his mouth drops a notch. Derek sometimes forgets how close Parrish was to John Stilinski when he was Sheriff, how close he was to Stiles too. Since John’s death, Parrish was appointed the new Sheriff, and while he’s lived up to the title as well as John, John was a legend and his legacy is still known in the town and at the station.

"Stiles. . . he. . ." Parrish swallows audibly. "He’s _here_?"

Isaac nods. "Scott called him. He got there around half four."

"He. . . it’s been so long," Parrish whispers. "How is he?"

"We didn’t really get a chance to speak," Isaac explains. "He was kind of running around with the doctors and then he was asking Scott to let him give Melissa his kidney."

"He’s the one who’s given Melissa a kidney?" Parrish echoes, sounding on the edge of awe.

Lydia nods. "Trust Stiles to come back with a bang."

Parrish runs a hand through his hair and drops down in the chair next to Lydia. "I can’t believe he’s back."

Lydia touches his shoulder in comfort as the Sheriff processes the fact that Stiles is home.

After a few minutes, he clearly composes himself. "Sorry. I, uh. . . I came here to talk about Melissa’s accident."

Scott looks up at that. He has his knees hugged to his chest like a scared child.

Parrish smiles at him gently. "There was no other cars involved. Someone found her car bonnet-first into a tree. Judging by the skid marks on the road, we’re assuming she swerved to avoid something in the road and ran off the road."

Scott nods. "Do you think. . . do you think it was something—"

"We’ll go and check it out," Derek says, nodding to Parrish. "We’ll see if we can smell anything."

Parrish nods. "The station has backed off the scene for a while. Now is a good time to go."

"I’m coming," Scott declares, already standing up.

"No," Derek says, and the alpha looks at him in surprise. "You need to stay here, rest, shower. I don’t care. Me and Parrish will go. I want you all to rest."

"Derek—" Isaac starts.

"No," Derek repeats. "Its been a long, emotional night. We don’t know what is going to happen later and we need to have as much energy as we can. Stay here and rest up."

The pack nod unhappily, but before anyone can argue more, Derek is following Jordan out of the house.

The accident site is a sight for sore eyes. Melissa’s car looks like it’s been squashed with a clamp into a large tree trunk, the dark blue Volvo is wrapped around the tree like a pretzel.

"It looks worse in the light," Parrish says, as Derek moves around the vehicle. "She’s lucky she wasn’t killed."

Derek grunts in response, crouching down to look at the tire marks shaded into the road surface.

"I’ve seen people in smaller crashes lose their lives," Parrish goes on.

"She’s strong," Derek replies, standing up and looking at the surrounding trees.

It’s a long, silent moment before Parrish talks again. "So, Stiles, huh?"

Derek tries to refrain from reacting, but he can’t stop his breath hitching and his back stiffening at the name.

"Yeah," he says weakly. "Stiles."

"I’d never imagined he’d come back," Parrish murmurs, as if he’s talking to himself. "I’d never blame if he never stepped foot in this town again after what happened."

"No one would have," Derek replies. "He had every right to stay away."

"But he came back, because Scott needed him."

 _We all needed him_ , Derek wants to say. "That’s Stiles for you."

After a few more minutes, Derek stands straight and heads back to Parrish, who is leaning on the bonnet of his cruiser.

"There’s nothing here. All I can smell is forest animals. Deers are the strongest, so no doubt that was what ran in front of her."

Parrish looks relieved, his shoulders slouching as soon as Derek explains. "Good," he says, smiling slightly. "We’ve been on a good run, I was worried."

"We all were," Derek nods, opening the door and climbing in.

Parrish follows a few minutes later, but he doesn’t start the car. Instead, he stares out the windscreen and asks, "Are you okay?"

"About what?"

"About Stiles," Parrish says, and Derek can’t stop himself from drawing in a sharp breath. "Are you okay now he’s back?"

"I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?" Derek replies instantly, and he makes the mistake of meeting Parrish’s eyes.

Derek became a deputy four years ago when the pack began to disperse to go to college and work. He’s worked alongside Parrish for four years, and despite being the most mysterious of the pack, the most secretive and cold, Parrish has managed to read him like an open book.

"Because its Stiles," Parrish explains.

Derek looks away. "He won’t stay. He has no reason to."

"Do you want him to leave?"

"I do want to finish this conversation," Derek replies coldly.

Parrish shifts in his seat, sighing. "As long as you’re okay. If you need anything, you know I’m here too."

Derek swallows around the lump in his throat. "Thanks," he replies gruffly.

Parrish laughs, starting the car and finally rolling it into drive.

When Derek gets back to the house, the pack are all asleep in the living room, crashed out and breathing slow. Parrish excuses himself to go back to the station and promises to keep Derek updated if anything changes in Melissa’s case.

Derek checks the time, **09:26** , and decides he can shower before they get the call to go back to the hospital.

He stands under the warm water for a long time. He feels every drop roll down his skin, washing away the worry and tension in his shoulders. He slumps against the wall, emotionally exhausted.

Stiles is back, he tells himself. Stiles is _back_.

It still feels like a dream. For so long, Derek had tried to forget about the teen who robbed his heart without knowing it. His wolf howled for him on full moons, his skin prickled at the thought of his pale skin and curious, unusual eyes. He missed the sound of his voice, the pattern of his laughter. He missed the sarcasm, the wit. He missed the way he’d look at Derek like he wanted to reach out, to take his pain and misery and tell him he understood. He missed the way Stiles would formate plans before the rest of them could even figure out what was happening. He missed his bundles of research, the soft bags under his eyes when he put his everything into helping the pack.

For so long, Derek has managed to convince himself he doesn’t miss that anymore, but one glance at the long lost boy has made every wall and defence he put up crumble like paper cards. He built the walls so high they’ve crushed him when they fell.

When he gets out, it’s **9:53** and the pack are awake downstairs.

"The hospital called," Lydia tells him when he walks into the living room, freshly dressed and hair damp. "Stiles has just got out."

Derek nods. "Let’s go then."

At the hospital, the same nurse that told them to go home meets them in the reception.

"He’s in the ICU, the operation was successful," she says in greeting. "Melissa will be out soon too."

"Can we see him?" Scott asks.

The nurse nods. "Only two at a time. He’s going to be asleep for a few hours, the operation would have taken a lot of energy out of him. We’ll be moving him to a private room tomorrow afternoon if all goes well."

They all nod and Derek looks to his pack, the nurses words ringing in his head.

"You two should go first," Isaac says first, nodding towards him and Scott standing in front of them all.

Scott doesn't look like he's going to object, and when Derek opens his mouth, he's unsure what to say.

Lydia beats him to it.

"Just go," she tells them, nodding. "We know."

 _We know_.

Derek can't stop the humiliating blush glowing his cheeks.

Scott nods next to him, apparently needing no more convincing. He starts walking, and turns back when he sees Derek not following him.

"Derek, come on," he says.

Derek takes one last look at his pack before he turns and follows Scott and the nurse down the corridor.

 _We know_.

Know what?

 

Stiles looks too small on the bed. Despite five years passing, he still looks too small to be in such a large room. He's translucent in the bright ICU lights, so pale he's practically camouflaged into the bed sheets. There's a baby blue blanket covering him, the hospital gown too big and the short sleeves reaching down to his elbows.

Scott drops down into the chair on the far side, much like he did when he saw his mother, weighted and exhausted. Derek watches him stare at Stiles before he manages to drag his own eyes away and approach the bed himself.

Stiles looks different up close. Derek can see every change in his face. He's lost the baby fat in his face, bringing out the sharpness of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw. His lips, white now and cracked, remind Derek of Cupid bows.

He sinks down into the chair slowly. The beeping machine by his hear is rhythmic and loud, but he listens in so he can hear the steady heartbeat inside the fragile chest before him. The sound soothes him, and he slumps boneless in the plastic mould chair as the buried fear and panic about the whole night rushes through him.

Him and Scott sit in silence for a long time. Derek himself feels too choked up to speak, and even if he could, he doesn't know what to say. He still feels the bullet of shock that Stiles is _here_.

"Are you okay?"

He looks up from where his eyes had been locked on the askew strands of dark hair, and finds Scott looking across the bed at him.

"Of course," he grunts. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Scott licks his lips. "Lydia told me about you. .and Stiles."

"What about me and Stiles?"

Scott looks at him with tired eyes. "Are you okay that he's back?"

Derek doesn't reply. He doesn't think he can, because he doesn't know the answer. Is he okay that Stiles is back? He doesn't know what would be worse, trying to live with Stiles in his life again or having to watch him leave again. Is Stiles staying? Is he only here for Scott and Melissa?

"He cares about you, y'know," Scott says without him answering. Derek looks up from where his eyes had drifted to Stiles' pale, thin hand. "He always asks about you."

"He asks about the pack," Derek insists.

Scott shakes his head. "He asks about you first, every single time," he corrects. "He never stopped caring, Derek. Never."

 

Melissa comes out of surgery half an hour later and Scott quickly disappears with Isaac to go and see her. She's in the ICU too, so she's in the bed next to Stiles'. Derek leaves Stiles' side when Lydia takes Scott previous spot, and finds Erica and Boyd in the waiting room.

They look up at him questioningly when he comes out.

"Everything okay?" Boyd asks.

Derek nods. "He's still sleeping. Lydia is with him now and Isaac and Scott are with Melissa."

Erica stands up, squeezing Boyd's hand. "I'm going to go and see him and then we can go, okay?"

Boyd nods and the pair watch her go.

"You're going?" Derek asks.

Boyd nods. "We want to be here, but if only two people can be here at a time we're just taking up space. Erica has a shift at the Cafe tomorrow too. She managed to get out of this morning but she can't bail again."

Derek nods back. He understands, all the time Stiles and Melissa are in the ICU there's no point them all being there.

The pair sit in a comfortable silence for half an hour before Erica comes out red-eyed and cheeks botched. She smiles at them both, hand squeezing Derek's shoulder before Boyd stands up and they're saying goodbye.

"Get home safe," Derek tells them.

Boyd nods, arm around Erica's shoulders. "Call us if anything changes."

"I will."

He goes back to Stiles' bed when they're gone and finds Lydia clasping his lax hand like a lifeline. Her eyes are watery, cheeks wet and red. She looks up at him when he approaches, smiling.

"I can't believe he's here," she whispers. "It feels like he's not even real."

Derek nods. "I know."

"He's changed," she says. "He's thinner, and taller. He looks older, but not just with age."

"I know," Derek echoes.

"He looked tired, before he went in surgery."

Derek is starting to think she's thinking out loud.

"He's not sleeping enough, or eating enough," she goes on. "Do you think he's taking care of himself?"

"He travelled for six hours to get here," Derek tells her. "He had every right to look tired."

"How do you know that?" Lydia looks up at him with sharp green eyes, the emerald rings blazing.

"He told us he was on his way as soon as he got the call, and he got here six hours after Scott said he’d called him," Derek replies. "You must be more exhausted than I expected if you didn't think that."

Her eyes become clearer, and she looks like she wants to snap. Exhaustion must be taking its toll, because she just looks back down at the sleeping human.

"Do you think he'll stay?" She asks.

Derek doesn't know how to reply to that. He's never been good with words, and he doesn't want to voice what he thinks about the situation.

"I don't know," he admits, "but I hope not."

Lydia's head snaps up. "What?"

"He deserves better," Derek explains, looking down at the face that has changed so much yet stayed so similar. "He deserves better than what this town did to him."

He sees Lydia nod. "You're right. It would be selfish to keep him here."

Derek nods numbly.

"That's why you didn't tell him, wasn't it?"

This time, it's him who's head snaps up. "What?"

Lydia's eyes hold an intimidating amount of confidence. "That's why you didn't tell him how you felt before he left, because you didn't want him to feel like he had to stay for you."

Derek is silent for a long moment, and then he huffs a laugh. "Apparently you're _not_ too tired to notice things."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "I notice everything, you know that. I'm not stupid either, but apparently you are."

Derek raises a thick eyebrow and Lydia sighs through her nose.

"I understand why you did it. I understand that at the time, it felt selfish and irrational to put such a big dept on him when his father had just died, but Stiles wouldn't have stayed for you. If Stiles wanted to go, he wanted to go regardless, but he would have asked you to go with him. Or, knowing he had someone who cared about him as much as you do would have been enough to help him here."

"I couldn't leave, I have a pack and territory," Derek replies. "And he shouldn't stay here, and he shouldn't stay here for _me_. This town has nothing for him."

Lydia stares at him for a moment with calculating eyes. "Do you really believe you couldn't leave here?"

Derek's eyes widen. "Of course not. It. . . It's my territory. It's my pack land."

"It's pack land with Scott," Lydia corrects. "We don't _need_ two alphas. If you wanted to go, if you wanted to be with _Stiles_ , you could go."

Derek doesn't know if it was intentional, but Lydia's words hurt.

She must realise a moment later the brutality in her message.

"We need you, Derek, but we can survive without you if we had to," she redrafts. "You'd never be very far, and we know you'll always come back."

Derek licks his lips and says nothing.

 

Derek sleeps overnight at Stiles' bedside and Scott stays with Melissa. Derek tries to soak up, like a sponge to water, all the features and details in Stiles that have changed. He tries to ignore the way his cheekbones look sharper and his wrist bones are too skinny, and how the bruises under his eyes look from more than just the surgery. Instead, he looks at the way his ridiculously long eyelashes fan delicately over his porcelain skin when they move, twitching in sleep. He drinks in the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. He relishes in the sound of his steady heartbeat and calm breathing.

Derek wants to see his eyes. He wants to lose himself in the endless whiskey pools and long gazes.

He feels like he can’t breathe the whole time he watches, which is stupid because Stiles has been gone for five years and Derek has felt nothing, _done_ nothing. It would be selfish to want it now.

The bag of Stiles’ belongings buzzes on the floor by the bed. Derek waits a moment, and it buzzes again. He reaches down to retrieve it and digs his hand inside when it buzzes again.

He pulls out the phone, the screen already lit up with the incoming notifications.

_[TEXT MESSAGE]_ **Evan**

_Where are you?_

_[MISSED CALL]_ **Evan**

_[TEXT MESSAGE]_ **Evan**

_Are you okay? Call me back man._

Derek can feel himself frowning so tight his skin could split. Who is Evan?

Could he be a boyfriend? A best friend? A roommate?

Derek can feel his wolf hackles going up as he stares at the illuminated screen. Questions flood his mind like steam out of a shower room, the reoccurring question of _who is Evan to Stiles?_

He closes the phone and places it back in the bag. Stiles has been here for less than a day, and Derek has no right to pry into his private business. It’s been five years, Stiles is a whole new person. He has a whole new life that neither Derek or anyone in the pack is part of. Derek can hear Scott moving, can hear the pack getting up outside the ICU. He tunes in and hears the heart monitor in the bed next to Stiles’ pick up. He can’t stop himself, he has to stand up.

He leaves Stiles, eyes watching him as he moves to the next bed in time to see Melissa’s eyes open blearily, a little bit swollen from sleep.

Scott is sitting so close he may as well be sitting in her lap, hand clutching hers so tight as if she’d float away if he let go.

Her gaze finds his after a moment, and she smiles, slow and soft.

"Hey, kiddo," she rasps, coughing slightly. Derek grabs the jug of water on the bedside and pours her some in a plastic cup.

"Here," he murmurs, handing it to her.

She takes it with a shaky hand, Scott reaching over to help her as she sips it down hesitantly yet greedily.

Scott hands him back the empty cup as she says, "Thank you, Derek."

"Mom," Scott starts, tears bright in his eyes. "You. . ."

"There was a deer," she says, nodding. "In the road. I. . ."

"You almost died, mom," Scott whisper, and _Jesus_ , Derek can’t think of a worse way to speak to someone who has woken up after having a car accident.

She looks to Derek. "What happened?"

"Kidney transplant," he replies. He’s not good at comforting either. Melissa is a nurse, she doesn’t want to be coddled and lied to. "Other than that, just a concussion and chest bruising."

The lingering sleep disappears from her eyes instantly as they widen. She looks at Scott, then back to Derek. "Kidney transplant?"

"Something happened in the crash. You’re kidneys were failing and you needed new ones," Derek tells her.

"Wh. . . who. . ."

Derek’s eyes flick towards the bed beside them, where nothing has moved or changed. "He’s back, Mel."

Her eyes widen, and Derek just knows she _knows_.

"Stiles is back."

Her reaction is the same as everyone else’s. Speechless, breathless, astounded. Her face is one of many emotions, surprise being the boldest. Her eyes are so wide they look comical.

"He. . . Stiles. . . he’s—"

"I called him, mom," Scott interrupts. "I wanted. . . I needed him here. I know I shouldn’t have, I know you agreed he should have stayed away, but—"

"No," Melissa says, squeezing his hand. Her own eyes are leaking salty, clear tears. "No, Scott. Love, don’t apologise for that. I. . . thank you. Thank you for bringing him home."

Her voice is still husky with sleep, her eyes, though filled with tears, look tired. She’s still drained from the energy it took to make it through the accident and the surgery.

"The pack are outside," Derek says. "They can’t come in, but you should know they’re here."

Melissa smiles, nodding. "Thank you, Derek."

Derek leaves them a few moments later, and he can tell by the sound of her slowing heartbeat that she falls back to sleep pretty quickly. He sits back down in the chair beside Stiles’ bed, and is horribly reminded that Stiles is _still_ sleeping. He tries not to worry: Stiles has only been out of surgery for a few hours.

Out of the corner of his eye, a small while later, he see’s Scott stand up and approach Stiles’ bed. He sits down on the other side, eyes trained on the sleeping male before they slowly crawl up to Derek’s.

"Thank you for telling her," he says, voice unstable and wobbling. "I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. . ."

"I know," Derek nods. "It’s okay. She’s going to be alright now."

Scott nods, but doesn’t say anything else. He looks around them for a moment, eyes flicking from places in the large ward.

"Do you think the others want to come in?" He asks.

"Erica and Boyd have gone home. Erica has work and I assume Boyd does too," Derek tells him. "It’s only Isaac and Lydia out there now."

Scott nods, beginning to stand up. "I’m going to go and see how they are," he stops, takes his phone out of his pocket and looks down at it for a moment. "Allison should be here soon too."

Derek nods and watches him go, and once again, he is left with the silence and rhythmic beeps.

He wants to know where Stiles has been, how he has survived these last five years after something so soul crushing, so traumatic that he left already looking like a ghost of himself. Has he been okay? Whoever this Evan is, has he been taking care of Stiles? How did they meet? Do they live together? Stiles is 22 now, so Derek can’t— _shouldn’t_ be, surprised if Stiles confesses that he has a partner on the other side of the country.

When Scott comes back, Derek is so deep in thought he barely notices the other alpha sitting down.

A while passes, and both alpha’s lose themselves in the sound of the slow breaths and mind-numbing heart monitors.

It takes Derek a moment to notice the uptick before the monitor does beside him, and then Stiles' eyes lashes are fluttering, fanning against his cheekbones and peeling open slowly. Derek feels hypnotised from watching. So hypnotised, in fact, that he completely forgets to react to the young man finally coming into consciousness.

Scott leans forward in an instant, reaching out and clasping the lax hand on top of the covers. Derek feels a punch of envy, eyes slipping towards the limply curled hand on the other side, free and vacant. He doesn't reach out and grab it, despite how much as he wants to.

Stiles blinks lethargically, eyes moving from the ceiling towards Scott. Even from the other side of the bed, Derek see's the sleepy smile on his pale face.

"Hey," he croaks.

Scott smiles brightly. He looks like he’s going to cry again. "Hey, man."

Stiles’ throat ripples as he swallows dryly. He blinks sluggishly, like his eyelids are made of thick honey.

"It worked?" He rasps.

Tears fill Scott’s eyes. He laughs, watery and light. "Yeah. Yeah, buddy, it worked."

"Good," Stiles whispers, eyes closing slowly. "How is she?"

"She's fine, man. She's great, already been awake."

"Dammit," Stiles mumbles, lips quirking in a weak smile. "Mama McCall beat me to it."

Scott laughs a watery laugh, tears swelling up in his eyes, glistening in the dim hospital light from the lamp. Stiles blinks his eyes open and closed slowly, sluggish as if weighed down with fatigue.

That's normal, Derek has to remind himself. Stiles just had surgery, he's allowed to be tired.

"You should sleep," Derek says. Whiskey eyes find his, and the sight of them, the colour and size and impossible framing of long lashes, take his breath away.

Stiles stares at him for a moment, eyes kind and full of wisdom that he didn't hold before. Stiles has always been smart, but his eyes look old now, like they're seen everything there is to be seen.

He nods, blinking again heavily like his eyelids are being weighed down. "Yeah. That's a good idea."

Scott squeezes his hand, and Derek sees his other one twitch, the fingers jerking slightly as if looking for something to grasp.

He doesn't stop himself reaching across and taking it this time. The skin is cold and smooth, the bones and tendons in his hand pressing against Derek's fingers.

Stiles looks at their hands and then Derek's face.

"We'll be here when you wake up," he says.

Stiles smiles, and Derek pretends it doesn't make his heartbeat tick up a notch.

"Thanks, Sourwolf," he whispers, and then he's out. 

 

Stiles is in the ICU for a day before him and Melissa are moved to private rooms, and the entire time, whether Stiles is awake or asleep, Derek feels like his stomach is being scooped out with anxiety. Stiles stays weak and pale on the bed, small under the bedsheets like a child. Once he’s moved to a private room, more people can visit. Melissa is in the room right next door, so swopping between the rooms becomes like a schedule.

Derek visits Melissa once more after she wakes up, and the woman clings to his hand tightly and tells him to thank Stiles for her.

After that, Derek doesn’t leave Stiles’ side. He twitches and shifts in his sleep, eyes rolling and moving under the lids with dreams. Derek watches, unable to take his eyes away incase Stiles disappears. His presence is so fragile, like a thin fragment of a dream, that Derek worries if he looks away for too long the younger male be gone without a trace.

He tries to stop himself from getting attached, from getting linked to the idea of Stiles being around again, because he knows Stiles won’t stay. In a way, he doesn’t _want_ Stiles to stay, for the exact reason Stiles left five years ago is the exact reason he should stay away. This town does nothing for him, holds nothing that should tie him so strongly to a place that holds two graves and a lifetime of bad dreams.

Something nudges his face once, twice. It’s knocking his nose like a flick. He opens his eyes slowly in time to see a pair of fingers flick the tip of his nose. He jerks up in surprise, unsure of when he’d even fallen asleep.

Stiles grins at him, eyes still sleepy but smile wide and bright. "Morning, sleeping beauty."

Derek grunts, rubbing a hand down his face. He still feels exhausted, so he’s sure he couldn’t have slept for that long. He looks to the window in the corner, the blinds are pulled but it’s light out, which means it’s morning. Stiles was moved into his private room the afternoon before, so Derek could have gotten a full night sleep for all he knows.

He looks back to the bed and finds golden eyes already looking at him.

"You stayed," he whispers, voice sounding on the verge of something familiar to awe.

Derek finds himself nodding almost numbly. "Yeah. I stayed."

Stiles smiles softly, with care and kindness. "You’re here."

"No, _you’re_ here. You’re back," Derek murmurs, not wanting to speak to loud. The moment between them has taken on a delicacy, a soft tone that he doesn’t want to ruin.

Stiles blinks slowly. "Sorry it took so long. I wanted to. . . I should have—"

"No," Derek stops him. "You don’t need to apologise. We all know why you left, why you didn’t come back."

"I shouldn’t have cut you all off like that," he says. "It wasn’t your fault—"

"And before you say it, it wasn’t yours," Derek tells him, because he is not ready to listen to Stiles self-destroy himself with guilt again. He watched it once, he will not witness it again. "No one blames you for leaving, no one blames you for staying away."

 _I blame you for not contacting us_ , he wants to say, but doesn’t. Grief does funny things to someones logic and common-sense, and when it finally comes back, things like creating ties again feels impossible. He understands that, because it took him a long time to reconnect with the people he cut off after the fire.

Stiles is staring at him with a strange sense of vulnerability, like his defences have been cracked open like a walnut, his face an open book of pain. Derek wishes he could backtrack and go back to moments before when Stiles’ face was split with a shit-eating grin after flicking him awake like a child.

"I just wanted to say that I’m sorry," he whispers, and he sounds so _fragile_ that Derek wants to wrap him in the pale blue blankets on the bed and never let him go. His wolf is going into overdrive, howling to protect the one buried so deep in his heart like he belongs there.

"You don’t need to be," Derek says, "but okay. You’re forgiven."

Stiles huffs a laugh, slouching back into the pillows like melting butter. He’s still paler than normal, but he looks far more awake and lucid. He looks at the empty chair and says, "Where is everyone?"

Derek follows his eyes for a moment before he replies, "They probably went home for the night. We’ve been waiting around for a few days now, everyone is tired, Erica and Boyd have work. Allison got here a few hours ago, so they’ll be coming back."

"Who’s with Melissa?"

"Scott and Allison, as far as I know."

Stiles nods firmly. "Good. She shouldn’t be alone."

 _Neither should you,_ Derek wants to say, but once again, he doesn’t. He already feels pried open, like Stiles can read everything he feels and has ever felt like an open book on his face.

"Scott’s told me everything that’s happened," Stiles starts, and Derek refrains from smiling at the thought that Stiles hasn’t changed so much that he still can’t stand silence. "Sounds like Beacon Hills is finally quiet."

Derek grunts. "Finally. Pack’s the same though."

"I know," Stiles smiles.

"I’ll text them now, tell them you’re awake," Derek says, getting his phone out of his back pocket.

"My, God, Derek Hale _texting?"_ Stiles gasps, hand over his heart dramatically. "I had no idea you even owned a phone, let alone knew how to use one!"

Derek stares at him for a moment before reaching over and flicking him swiftly on the centre of his forehead.

Stiles yelps, so much like he used to, and jumps a bit.

"Hey!" He cries. "No beating up the wounded!"

"Don’t move too much or you’ll pull your stitches," Derek chides, texting the pack. He pauses for a split moment and does remind himself that he is _texting_ , and yes, even he thinks it’s weird.

" _You’re_ the one _making_ me move, you evil spawn!" Stiles accuses, and Derek almost falls back into the pattern of how they used to be five years ago, with the easy banter and play-on insults.

He finishes his text to the pack before pocketing his phone again. He looks up, and once again the eyes are already on him, watching him with an unreadable expression.

"What?" He asks.

Stiles shakes his head, a gentle, sleepy smile twitching on his cracked lips. "Nothing," he says. "Are the pack coming?"

Derek nods. "They’re on their way. Erica is at work, so Boyd will bring her over later."

"Erica works?" Stiles echoes. "Where?"

"A hairdressers and a cafe," Derek explains. "She’s doing an apprentice in hair and makeup, but it’s not enough to pay for everything so she’s working at the cafe as well."

Stiles nods. "I can imagine her a hairdresser. Her hair always looked flawless."

Derek smiles. Something warms his heart when Stiles talks highly about the pack, about his friends. Some part of him is just relived he hasn’t forgotten about them completely.

"What does everyone else do?"

"Well, Boyd works as a builder. He graduated college last year. Isaac went straight from high school to working in a preschool in the next town. He didn’t want to go to college, I don’t think he wanted the physical distance. Allison lives in France, she works as a personal combat trainer with Chris. They have some kind of camp, workshop-thing set up out there. Lydia is in college in New York, she’s doing mathematics and doctors courses."

"Let me guess, neurosurgeon?" Stiles grins.

Derek rolls his eyes and nods. "She doesn’t know exactly, but I doubt she do anything easy and simple. And Scott is in his last year at Veterinary school, I think he’s going to be coming back when he finishes, work with Deaton or something."

"I never imagined Scott would go away for college," Stiles says.

Derek shrugs. "He hasn’t gone far. Only L.A. There’s a small college there attached to a high school who have a large veterinary department. He comes home every weekend."

"That’s good," Stiles smiles. "Scott will never leave. He’s like a damn puppy."

Derek huffs a laugh, chuckling and chest shaking slightly.

"And what about you?" Stiles asks, shifting slightly. Derek reaches out automatically when he sees him wince, eyes scrunching closed and nose wrinkling. Stiles sighs when the black lines appear and the flares of pain drain out of him. He relaxes into the pillows, sighing, "Thank you."

"No problem," Derek replies curtly, cheeks glowing. He’s glad Stiles’ eyes are still closed so he doesn’t see the humiliating blush decorating his skin.

Stiles’ eyes open after a moment, soft and sleepy. "Way better than the painkillers they give here."

"Are you in loads of pain?"

"Not loads," Stiles shakes his head slightly. "Just more uncomfortable, but I think that’s more from the idea of _being_ here."

Derek nods. "Yeah. I. . . I get that."

"So, what is it you do?" Stiles repeats, backtracking onto their previous conversation. "Or do you still spend all of your time stalking people and glaring at cute bunnies?"

Derek rolls his eyes, but his heart is fond. "I never glared at bunnies or stalk people. And, I’m a deputy."

Stiles’ eyes widen comically. "You’re. . . _you_ are a. . . deputy?"

"With Parrish, yeah. He was more than surprised when we told him you were back."

Stiles’ eyes drop slightly and he fiddles with a loose thread on his blankets. "Oh," he says.

The alpha’s stomach suddenly swoops with anxiety. The mention of deputies and Parrish is like casting a cloud over a town. It suddenly feels dark and gloomy, the negative and watery chemo-signals making Derek’s senses burn.

"I’m sorry," he apologises. "I didn’t. . . Parrish won’t—"

"It’s okay," Stiles interrupts, looking up after a moment and meeting his eyes. They’re big and vulnerable, open and seeping a sense of nostalgia. "I. . . it’s just weird being back. I didn’t. . . I didn’t think I’d be welcome."

Derek frowns, and he wants to ask Stiles why he would ever think that, when the door behind him opens and sound fills the room.

He looks over his shoulder in time to see Lydia gasp and cover her mouth with her hand. Isaac and Allison are behind her, looking into the room.

"Hey, guys," Stiles says, and Derek looks back at him to see him grinning so widely it reaches both ears.

Suddenly, Lydia rushes forward, rounding the bed and without saying anything, she reaches down and scoops Stiles into a hug.

Stiles makes a startled sound, but instantly his arms wind around Lydia and he hugs back.

"You’re here," she whispers. "You’re here and you’re awake."

Stiles chuckles breathlessly, slightly wheezy. "I’m here and awake, well done, Lydia."

Lydia pulls back, tears glistening in her eyes, and playfully smacks his shoulder. "Shut up, you ass."

"I’m flattered," Stiles teases, "Lydia Martin crying for me, how privileged am I?"

"I’m not crying," Lydia replies without a beat, wiping the underside of her eyes. "It’s hay fever."

"Of course."

Lydia rolls her eyes and sits down on one of the chairs, taking Stiles’ hand instantly. Derek bites down the flash of jealousy that ticks his finger tips. He has no reason to be jealous of Lydia and Stiles: they were impossibly close as friends when Stiles left, practically like brother and sister. Lydia was just as hurt from Stiles’ departure as Scott and Derek. It surprises him more, actually, that Lydia wasn’t the one who kept in contact with Stiles instead of Scott.

Allison and Isaac stand behind Derek, looking down at the bed.

"Isaac, I didn’t think it was possible but you look even _more_ like a puppy now you’re old," Stiles quips.

"Shut up," Isaac grumbles, but he’s smiling like the rest of them as he pats down his curly, unruly hair. "I’m not old either."

"23 _is_ old," Stiles grins.

"You’re 22!" Isaac accuses hysterically.

"Shh," Stiles whispers. "You’ll remind me of my grey hairs."

"Speaking of hair," Lydia says, running her fingers through his, pushing it up of his forehead and making it stand on end. "What the hell has happened to yours?"

"What do you mean, 'what’s happened to it'?" Stiles asks. "It’s the same as it was before, just a little longer."

"Do you even style it anymore?"

"Sometimes," Stiles shrugs, "But it’s kind of hard to do when you’ve been sleeping off a surgery."

Lydia rolls her eyes but says no more.

"I prefer it messier," Allison chimes in, and they all look to face her. She winks, "It looks like sex hair."

Stiles laughs, and then whines, curling in slightly. "Don't make me laugh, it hurts."

Allison's face shifts from smug to guilty in a heartbeat.

Derek takes Stiles' pain again, only then realising he hasn't taken his hand away from the first time. He ducks his head to hide the blush, but when he accidentally meets Lydia's eyes, he knows she knows.

"Don't look so scared, Ally cat," Stiles says, sighing in peace. "Just don't be so naturally funny and talk about my sex hair."

Allison laughs, "Sorry, Stiles."

"Don't be," Stiles replies, shaking his head. "Come here and give me a hug."

Allison rounds the bed so she's standing beside Lydia, and reaches down to pull Stiles into a hug. It doesn't last as long as Stiles' and Lydia's, but the human male clings on just as tight.

"You guys haven't changed a bit, ya know," Stiles says when he melts back into the cushions. His hair sticks up at the front now, and Derek can't force himself to stop thinking about how Allison was right: it does look like sex hair.

"We must have," Allison replies. "It's been five years."

Stiles shakes his head. "You haven't. The only difference is you've all grown your hair."

Isaac snorts, and the girls giggle.

The door opens a sliver and Scott pops his head in.

He grins, "Hey, man."

"Hey, Scotty," Stiles replies, mirroring his grin. "How's your mom?"

"She's great, man. She's really good," Scott says, stepping into the room and standing between Derek and Isaac. "What about you? You look better, feeling better?"

"I feel great, got my own little pain-drainer right here," Stiles quips, and lifts the hand Derek is still clasping.

Derek feels his face flush, cheeks burning hot. Stiles grins at him both mischievously and softly, and actually intertwines their fingers and squeezes tight. Reassurance and gratitude seeps through the touch and Derek feels like he could melt to the floor from it. He squeezes back, and keeps his eyes on their hands to avoid looking at everyone else.

"Good," Scott says. "You’re not in loads of pain, are you?"

"Nah, I’m good," Stiles’ voice is beginning to slur with fatigue, weighed down with the creeping signs of sleep and tiredness.

Scott smiles, "You look good. Get some sleep though, yeah?"

"Yeah," Stiles whispers, nodding. He smiles sleepily, eyes blinking slowly. "Give Mel a kiss from me."

"I will, man. I will," Scott replies, leaning down and patting Stiles’ shoulder. "She wants to see you whenever the doctors give her the green light to move."

Stiles is smiling like Scott has given him the most heart-warming news.

"I’m going to get going," Isaac says. "I’ve got work this afternoon, can’t skip again."

"Thanks for coming," Stiles murmurs. "It was good to see you guys."

"We’ll be back, you moron," Lydia says, standing up. "We’re not leaving for good."

"You’re going too?" Stiles asks.

"I’m going to go and grab my work from the house. I brought some back with me to do over the summer, so I’m going to go and bring it here to do," Lydia explains.

"Do me a favour and bring me something to do," Stiles says, "A book or something. I’m going to be so bored after this nap."

Lydia smiles. "I’ll bring you a book, and I’ll make it a surprise."

She leans down and kisses his cheek, finally letting go of his hand to stand up and round the bed. She follows Isaac and Scott out, the door closing slowly behind them all.

Derek stands a moment later, and the remaining two in the room watch him.

"I’m going to go and get a coffee from downstairs," he says. "Do you guys want anything?"

"I’ll take a coffee too," Allison requests. "And can you get Scott one too? I’ll take it to him when I go back into Melissa’s room."

Derek nods and leaves hurriedly. His hand feels cold when Stiles’ fingers slide out of his, leaving a burning hole.

He walks down to the cafe with a clear head, but on the way back up, he feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest like a caged animal. Stiles’ face and voice flashes in his head like a broken record, making him lose his balance and falter his step.

He carries the two coffee’s back up towards the room, glancing into Melissa’s window on his way to see Scott sitting by her bed, exactly where Derek would have betted his money he’d be.

Outside Stiles’ room, Derek stalls when he see’s that Allison has moved up so she’s by Stiles’ head and sits in Lydia’s previous chair. What she says has Derek hesitating the idea of entered. He waits outside, out of sight, and listens.

"My dad said he’s happy you’re back and okay," she says.

"That’s sweet," Stiles replies. "I always thought your father hated me."

"He tolerated you," Allison corrects, and Derek glances in to see her grinning, dimples poking her cheeks.

"Wow, way to really make me feel loved, Ally," Stiles replies sarcastically, eyes closed and a lop-sided smirk on his lips.

"Speaking of love," Allison muses, "It’s been five years, are you loved up?"

There’s a beat of silence, and then a muffled snort. "'Loved up'?" Stiles parrots. "Really, Allison? Loved up?"

"Shut up," Allison giggles. "Answer the question!"

Instantly, Derek thinks of Evan. He thinks of Stiles’ phone, the messages unanswered. Derek doesn’t want to listen to this. He doesn’t think he can handle it. If Stiles says yes, Derek won’t be able to go back into the hospital room.

"No," the single word makes Derek’s heart race and stomach drop like the strings holding it up have been cut. "I’m not 'loved up'."

"Have you been?" Allison presses, and Derek wants to stop her himself.

"I haven’t been single for an entire five years, Allison. Thank you for the boost of confidence!"

Allison groans. "That’s not what I meant."

"I wouldn’t describe it as 'loved up', but I haven’t been. . . it’s complicated."

"Oh no," Allison replies. "Complicated?"

"It wasn’t a relationship," Stiles says. "More of a. . ."

"Friends with benefits?"

Derek’s heart is ready to burst out of his chest.

"Of sort, I guess?"

He feels sick. With relief or distraught, he doesn’t know. The coffee’s are being squeezed tight in his hands.

"I never imagined you to be a booty call, Stiles!" Allison gasps, giggling.

"I wasn’t a booty call!" Stiles defends. Derek wonders if his ears are fooling him when he thinks Stiles sounds sad about it. Why would he be sad?

Allison hums, unconvinced.

Derek takes a deep breath, and nudges the door handle down with his elbow. It swings open and he turns into the room in time to see Stiles and Allison look over.

"Coffee," Derek says curtly, coming out colder than he intended. He feels snubbed, almost robbed, and he doesn’t know why.

Allison smiles, unfazed by the tone apparently and takes her coffee with both hands. She smiles at them both, broad and dimpled.

"I’m going to go and see Scott, okay?" She says, and looks to Stiles. "I’ll be back in here later."

Stiles nods, blinking slow. "Have fun."

Allison winks and walks out, thanking Derek quietly for the coffee. She touches his shoulder in a fleeting touch, a grounding one the pack exchange all the time. Its reassuring and concerning at the same time.

The door closes softly behind her, and Derek drops down in the chair.

"You’re phone went off earlier," Derek says. He should tell Stiles that Evan tried to contact him. He has every right to know.

Stiles frowns. "It did?"

Derek nods, grabbing the phone from his bag with the clothes he came in, keys and wallet.

Stiles takes it with weak, shaky hands. His lips twitch in a smile when he reads the messages, and Derek does his best not to growl. Instead, he looks down at his lap. He drinks his coffee quietly, not saying anything. A few minutes pass before Stiles breaks the silence.

"Are you okay?"

Derek looks up from the spot on the floor he’d been staring at. Stiles is looking at him, phone face down in his lap.

"Yeah," he replies, nodding stiffly. "You’re the one in a hospital bed, I should be asking you that."

Stiles huffs a laugh. He’s sitting up the bed, but he’s slouched back against the pillows like he can’t keep himself up. "I’m fine. Tired, but fine."

"You should sleep then."

Stiles shakes his head. "I don’t want to sleep. I have plenty of time to sleep."

"The pack will be back soon," Derek says, gulping some scalding coffee. "Sleep until then."

Stiles scrunches up his nose like a child about to start crying. Derek can’t decide if it’s adorable or not.

Stiles huffs a breath, shifting slightly in the bed.

"I hate hospitals," he whispers, barely audible even in the near silent room.

Derek looks up at him, looking into the burnt whiskey eyes that settle unseeingly on the floor. He reaches out and takes Stiles’ hand gently, slowly so he has plenty of time to pull away. Stiles laces their fingers together immediately, eyes looking down at their hands before they close.

"Thank you for staying," he murmurs.

"Anytime."

 

When Lydia comes back, she brings Stiles two books and a tells Derek he can go home.

Derek does, because one look from Lydia easily reads _Go home, have a shower, get some proper sleep. Stiles isn’t going to like you if you’re grouchy and stinky._

He goes with slouched shoulders, but he does shower and sleep when he’s home. He collapses in his bed, surrounded with the pack smells and sense of the house when he goes under.

When he wakes, its dark out and noise can be heard from downstairs. He throws on some clothes and knows it’s Erica and Boyd before he’s exited his own bedroom. He finds them in the kitchen, both of them leaning on either side of the island, talking with hushed murmurs.

They look up when he walks in, smiling.

"Hey," Erica says. "You slept like the dead."

"I was tired," Derek grumbles, making his way towards the coffee machine. "Have you heard anything?"

"Nothings changed, nothing to worry about," Boyd replies. "Lydia, Scott and Allison are with them now. Isaac’s on his way home from work and said he’s going to meet us there."

Derek nods. "Good."

The three of them down a mug of coffee each before they clamber in the car and go to the hospital. As they walk down the corridor, they see all Lydia, Allison and Scott in Melissa’s hospital room. Opening the door, Erica asks, "Why are we all in here?"

Scott looks up from his mother’s side. "Stiles is sleeping. The nurses keep telling us he needs to rest, so we’re staying in here for a while."

"You look well rested," Melissa adds, "Can one of you drag my son with you next time you go?"

"Mom," Scott whines, "Don’t—"

"Scott Anthony McCall, you need sleep, a shower and a decent meal. So help me, I _will_ get you to go home and do that before I am discharged," Melissa scolds, though she doesn’t sound angry or venomous.  
Erica chuckles along with Lydia and the three of them move further into the room. Derek feels a pull to check on Stiles, to be with him so he isn’t alone. It feels wrong to all be with Melissa and leave him, the guilt eating Derek’s insides like a wave of anxiety.

After a few minutes, Scott gets up and says, "I’m going to go and check on Stiles for a sec."

Derek is about to get up to say he’ll go, but decides against it. He’s getting attached, he realises. The pack are going to start suspecting— hell, some of them already _have!_

He watches Scott go and manages to force himself to focus on the conversation between Melissa and Lydia without actually registering what they’re saying. Scott comes back, and Derek doesn’t know how much time has passed.

"How is he?" Erica asks.

Scott nods, shifting from foot to foot. "He’s fine, still sleeping."

"What’s wrong?" Allison asks, reaching over the back of the chair and taking his hand to pull him further into the room.

"Nothing," Scott replies, but no one believes him. He stands behind Allison, holding her hand over her shoulder. After a moment of being watched, he adds, "It’s just hard seeing him like that."

There’s a beat of silence that stretches like a rubber band until it snaps.

"It’s okay, sweetie," Melissa says. "He’s alright."

"I know," Scott nods. "I just haven’t seen him for five years and now I have to watch him lay in a hospital bed."

The pack talk for a while before the door swings open, and Derek’s heart skips at the sight of Stiles, in a too-big hospital gown and standing with the support of his IV drip, in the doorway.

"Stiles!" Lydia and Erica gasp as one.

Stiles grins, cheeky and beaming, as he steps slowly into the room. He’s pale and gaunt, but the smile is so bright it’s blinding. Derek stands immediately, helping him keep the door open as he shuffles in.

"Hey, guys," he says, and instantly his eyes meet Melissa’s on the bed. "Hey, Mel."

Melissa rushes into a sitting position on the bed, moving towards the edge as if to get as close to Stiles as she can.

"Stiles, sweetie," she says, "Come here. Oh, God, come here, kid."

Stiles’ smile doesn’t falter as he moves between the pack towards the bed. Allison moves out of her chair and practically shoves Stiles towards it as he approaches the centre of the room.

"What are you doing up?" Melissa asks. "You should be in bed, you should be resting—"

"Oh, shh," Stiles replies. "I don’t want to be resting anymore. I’ve done enough resting."

"Oh, sweetie," Melissa comes, pulling back and helping Stiles into the chair. "You look tired."

"It’s a permanent look now, I promise," Stiles says, and they all chuckle. "It's good to finally see you when you're not on your death bed."

Melissa smiles at him. "Thank you," she murmurs, and it’s dripping with sentimental awe and gratitude, soft and fluffy like whipped butter. "Thank you, love. You. . . you saved my life—"

"Don’t do this," Stiles whispers, clutching her hand like a lifeline. "Don’t do this now. You don’t need to thank me."

"I do," Melissa stresses. The pair are talking as if they don’t have an audience, as if they’re the only two people in the room. The pack watch silently, the girls with hands over their mouths and tears in their eyes. "I do, Stiles, because you _saved_ me. You gave me a part of you and I can never repay you for that. So, thank you."

Stiles nods, eyes glistening. "I’d do it again if I had to, if I could. I’d do it a hundred times."

Melissa cups his cheek and smiles. "I know, sweetie. I know you would."

"In all serious, though," Erica chimes in, leaning over the end of the bed, "should you be out of bed, or are we going to have an angry nurse burst in in a minute and spank you back to bed?"

Stiles snorts, "I’m okay. I woke up and the nurse said you were all in here and gave me the green card to come in too."

"I’m sorry," Scott apologises, "Someone should have been with you—"

"Don’t be ridiculous," Stiles interrupts, shaking his head. "I don’t need you guys wasting you time watching me sleep. You don’t have to stay 24/7 for me."

"We do," Lydia replies.

Stiles’ eyebrow are drawn in a frown. "You don’t. Why would you?"

"Because you’re still pack," Derek answers, before he can stop himself and before anyone else can say it. All eyes turn to look at him, but he only meets Stiles. He shoves as much determination and promise as he can into his gaze. "You’ve always been pack, Stiles. You still are, and you always will be."

Stiles smiles and swallows audibly. "Really?"

Derek nods. "Really."

 

Eight days after the operation, Melissa and Stiles are released. Derek is sitting with Stiles during his last check-up, and when the nurse leaves after granting the good news, Stiles asks Derek to pass him his phone.

Silence stretches while Stiles taps on his phone and curses about the IV’s and drips in his hands. After a while, Derek can’t resist asking.

"How are you planning on getting home?"

Stiles looks up from his phone in mild surprise. "San Fran is only about five hours away, so I’m planning on renting a car and driving home."

"You can't drive home," Derek replies instantly.

Stiles’ raises an eyebrow. "Why the hell not?"

"Because you just went under intense surgery," Derek deadpans, thankful his gruff tone hides the overwhelming sense of panic he’s feeling. "You're not fit to drive."

Stiles stares at him blankly.

Derek swallows thickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them, "I'll drive you."

Stiles blinks. After a beat, he stammers, "You. . . what?"

"I'll drive you back to San Fransisco," Derek repeats.

Stiles blinks again.

Neither of them say anything.

It suddenly dawns on Derek: what has he done?

 

Stiles is wheeled out in a wheelchair - much to his protest - and then they're on the road. It's a small goodbye from Scott, the rest of the pack hugging him in his hospital room. Stiles promises to call them all and talk on the new Group Chat before they all leave.

The drive back to San Fransisco is only six hours, the roads quiet and clear, and Stiles sleeps for most of it. The drugs they have gave him before they left for the pain wipe him out and Derek's barely passed the _You are Leaving Beacon Hills!_ sign before he's curled up against the passenger door, sleeping soundly. Derek turns the radio down in the Camaro so it’s low, barely a murmur to avoid it disturbing Stiles' sleep. It takes a great effort _not_ to keep glancing over at the sleep male beside him, and Derek has to force himself strictly to pay attention to the road.

Derek has never been to San Fransisco, let alone drive there. The trip is new to him, and if he wasn’t so hyperaware of the human beside him, he’d take more time to look at the passing scenery around him.

Derek is able to withdraw into himself during the near silent drive. Stiles only wakes up once, shifting against the door and stirring. He makes muffled groans and murmurs as he comes around, blinking groggily. Derek glances between him and the road every few seconds, watching him wake up while making sure they don’t go head-on with another car.

Stiles rubs his eyes with the back of a hand like a child and Derek physically can’t look away from that. But when Stiles’ looks over to him, he quickly diverts his eyes to look back at the road.

"Where are we?" Stiles asks, voice heavy and slurred with sleep.

"We just passed Santa Maria," Derek tells him. "We still have about four hours left. You should get some more sleep if you want."

Stiles blinks slowly as if he is still chasing the last remnants of sleep. He shakes his head, moving so he’s sitting up more. He winces when he moves, and Derek automatically reaches across and draws the stings of pain.

Stiles chuckles, "Hands on the wheel, Sourwolf."

Derek reluctantly withdraws his hand, blush coating his skin like red paint. He hears Stiles laugh softly and breathlessly again.

"Aren’t you going to sleep?" Derek asks.

He see’s Stiles shake his head out of the corner of his eye. "Nah," he says. "I feel like all I have been doing is sleeping."

"That’s because you’re on high pain-meds and went through an intense operation," Derek explains, deadpanned. "You’re allowed to sleep. It means your body is tired."

"I know what it means, it’s just annoying. I’ve only ever done this drive once and it was during the night. I want to see the cities," Stiles replies.

After a moment of silence, Stiles reaches forward and slowly cranks up the radio volume.

He suddenly gasps, "I _love_ this song!"

Derek barely needs a moment to recognise it.

"You like The Smiths?" He asks.

"You _know_ The Smiths?" Stiles counters, bobbing his head and humming the tune.

Derek frowns. "Who doesn’t know The Smiths? They’re a classic."

Stiles barks a laugh. "You’ll be surprised. Scott had no idea when I played the most common songs. He didn’t even recognise _How Soon is Now?_!"

Derek rolls his eyes. "Scott has the music taste of a 12 year old girl."

Stiles chuckles, still bobbing his head. _"So if there’s something you’d like to try. . . if there’s something you’d like to try. . . ask me, I won’t say 'no', how could I?"_ He sings on exhales under his breath.

Derek smiles, facing the road. He feels relaxed because he knows Stiles is relaxed, relaxed and happy around him. The song plays on softly until it ends and a more recent pop song plays, and therefore Stiles’ singing stops.

"Do you have any water?" Stiles asks, and Derek nods, reaching around behind his chair while keeping one hand and his eyes on the wheel. He grabs the rolling bottle in the footwell and passes it to Stiles. "Thanks."

Stiles drinks silently for a few minutes, sipping the cool water slowly. Derek swallows with a dry throat at the sounds Stiles makes.

After a few minutes, silence stretches and Derek spares a fleeting glance to find Stiles asleep against the door again, closed bottle loosely clasped in his fingers.

Derek continues to drive, turning down the radio again so it doesn’t disturb Stiles. He stops for gas, but Stiles sleeps on so he grabs a blanket from the trunk and wraps it around the sleeping male, reclining the chair back so he isn’t sleeping at an awkward angle.

The drive barely takes more than six hours to get to San Fransisco, and it’s then that Derek realises he has no idea where he is going and where Stiles is living.

He pulls over and wakes the human up gently.

"Wh’s going’n?" Stiles mumbles, blinking blearily.

"We’re in San Fransisco," Derek tells him, "but I have no idea where I’m going."

Stiles blinks. "Oh. Shit. Sorry—"

He begins to get up and ultimately gasps in pain. Derek rushes to help him push the chair up and take his hand to relieve his discomfort. Stiles squeezes it tightly until the black veins fade, opening his eyes that had been clamped closed.

"Thank you," he says. "Thank you for always doing that. It. . . it really helps."

Derek smiles, "No problem."

"Right," Stiles starts, shifting so he’s sitting straight. He’s still pale and looks tired despite all the sleeping, but he’s aware and awake and that’s all that matters to Derek. "Okay, um. . . go down this road. Turn left. . ."

After about 10 minutes of instructions, Derek turns onto a long stretch of a road with brightly coloured Victorian houses on either side. It looks like a typical San Fransisco street.

"Stop here," Stiles tells him, and Derek pulls over into a parking spot on one side of the street.

"Which one is yours?" Derek asks, turning the car off and undoing his seatbelt.

Stiles points to a white and blue house on the opposite side of the street. "That one. Top floor."

"It's an apartment?"

"The house has been converted into two apartments," Stiles nods. "I got the top one though, and my neighbour is never home because she’s always travelling so we can be as loud as we want."

Derek’s breath hitches as his words, and Stiles seems to realise a moment later what he sounded like he was implying, because his face drops and he gasps, "No— not like that! Shit— I—"

"It's okay," Derek interrupts. "It’s all right."

"Jesus," Stiles laughs, shaking his head. "Sorry. Blame the meds."

Derek rolls his eyes. "Come on, lets get you inside."

Derek grabs his duffel bag and Stiles’ carrier bag of clothes. Scott had lent him a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie to go home in instead of having to put on his dirty clothes again. They cross the road, Stiles practically morphed into Derek’s side as he limps and sways, unstable on his feet. He hisses and winces in pain as they move slowly, so Derek wraps an arm around his shoulders and draws out the pain as he holds him up.

"Have we got to climb more stairs inside?" Derek asks as they near the stairs to the front door.

Stiles nods blearily. Standing up right and walking is draining his energy like a plug hole. He leans heavier and heavier on Derek by the moment. "My apartment is on the second floor."

Derek nods. "Okay. Do you think you’re going to be able to make it?"

Stiles nods slowly. "Yes. . . but no promises."

Derek huffs a laugh and takes the key Stiles hands him. He unlocks the blue front door and swings it open to a dark corridor that's lit by only the dim natural light coming through the window at the top of the staircase. The walls remind Derek of a 90's apartment building with the green wallpaper and worn wooden floorboards.

They shuffle along the narrow corridor, past a single painted door that Derek assumes leads to the bottom apartment before they find themselves standing at the bottom of the final stair case.

Derek looks up and then to Stiles, who's leaning nearly all of his weight into Derek to stay standing, eyes half-lidded.

"Come on," Derek starts, shuffling the bags so his duffel is strapped across his chest and arranges Stiles so he can scoop him straight into his arms. Stiles makes a startled noise when he is almost literally swept off his feet, cradled against Derek’s chest. The alpha begins to ascend the stairs before Stiles can protest, and is surprised when the wounded human simply settles in his arms and goes boneless against his chest. He's lighter than Derek expected, which is worrying and he makes another mental note to get some food into Stiles ASAP.

"Keep rocking me like that I’m going to fall asleep on you," Stiles murmurs, voice already thick with snooze.

Derek refrains from chuckling and cooing at the soft sounds of his sleepy slurs, and instead says, "As long as you don’t drool on me."

Stiles snorts, shaking a twitch. "Are you taking my pain?"

"Yes," Derek replies, voice small and quiet as if Stiles won’t hear him. "I don’t want to hurt you by carrying you this way."

"Too bad pain-drain doesn’t help my bruised masculinity," Stiles quips, eyes closing and grinning.

Derek rolls his eyes and reaches the top of the stairs. There is a single door at the top, barely any walkway between the top of the stairs and the threshold of the door. Stiles hands him back the single keying with the five keys dangling on it.

"Which one?" Derek asks, and after Stiles points it out, Derek slides it in the lock and swings the door open.

Stiles’ apartment is small, and the first thing they step into is the living room with a single couch and a small TV, a coffee table in the centre that is cluttered with books and days-old coffee mugs. There is a small archway that leads into an equally small box kitchen, a door beside the archway that Derek assumes is the bathroom. There are huge windows, wide and letting the bright daylight bleed in like streaks. The walls are lined with overflowing bookcases that spill out all along the floor and skirting boards, stacked in tall towers and piles. There’s another door on the other side of the room, opposite the kitchen, that’s wide open, and Derek can see familiarities of the bedroom inside.

He takes one more glance around the apartment before he strides straight past the couches and stacks of books and goes into the bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, its small and cosy. There’s a double bed in the centre of the room, a large bay window that stretches around almost the entirety of the room, accompanied by huge, draping curtains that are currently open. There's a chest of draws on one side of the bed and a clothes rail on the other, jackets and clothes exposed. Also like the rest of the apartment, Stiles’ bedroom is overflowing with more books.

Derek looks down at the form that shouldn’t be so light and small against his chest to see closed eyes and hear slow breathing. He smiles down at the sleeping human, but knows he needs to put him down.

Stiles stirs when Derek lays him down in the middle of the large bed that is flooded with blankets and covers. His eyes flutter and mouth opens as if he’s going to speak, but as soon as his eyes meet Derek’s he smiles and settles, melting like warmed butter against the mattress.

He hums sleepily, eyes closing slowly. "I’ve missed this bed."

Derek huffs a laugh and doesn’t resist the urge to run his fingers through Stiles’ messy, knot-locked hair. Stiles hums, lips quirking up into another small smile.

"Are you in any pain?" Derek asks, having taken his hand away when he put Stiles down.

Stiles shakes his head. "Not yet. Just sleepy."

"Sleep then," Derek whispers, knowing Stiles is on the brink already.

"You’re not going to leave, are you?" Stiles asks, voice small and Derek knows that’s not just because he’s almost asleep. He sounds vulnerably, almost scared.

Derek takes a moment to reply. "No. I’ll leave when you tell me."

"You can stay as long as you like," Stiles murmurs. Smiling, Derek cards his fingers through Stiles’ hair once more before he stands to pull the curtains closed and engulfs the room in a comfortable darkness.

He closes the door when he leaves, knowing he’ll be able to hear anything that happens or if Stiles is calling him through the closed door. He drops his duffel bag on the sofa and lets out a heavy, long breath that feels like deflates his lungs entirely.

It takes him a moment to say to himself that he is in Stiles’ _home_ , and he feels like a complete schoolgirl thinking that. He looks around, taking in the mass of scattered, battered books and dirty coffee mugs littered around the small apartment, the wide windows and single window that reaches from floor to ceiling and looks over the back of the house. The kitchen is clean and the bathroom is barely big enough for Derek to walk and turn around in. He feels weird, almost invading to be standing and walking around Stiles’ apartment when he’s not entirely there.

He checks on Stiles like a mother over a dying child while he sleeps, opening the bedroom door and looking in every half an hour, only to find the same thing every time: Stiles asleep in the middle of the bed, pillows spewed around his head and even breathing filling the silence of the room. Derek checks for fevers, unnatural warmths and Stiles' pain regularly, all coming up cool and painless. Stiles sleeps on undisturbed, unmoving in the bed but sleeping soundly and peaceful under the mass of covers.

Derek walks around his apartment aimlessly, nosing the impressive book collection Stiles sports on his endless shelves and coffee table. From classical, battered paper and hardbacks to newer, updated books with creased spines and dog-folded bookmarks in the corner of the pages.

He collects the dirty mugs with coffee stains from the coffee table and TV stand to wash up, dry them and put them away. When he goes to make himself a mug of coffee, he is surprised to find that in the cupboards he explores to find the home of Stiles’ mugs, he finds every food cupboard almost empty, as well as the fridge. He makes a mental note to make sure he either makes Stiles goes shopping when he’s well enough, or he goes shopping for him to stock up.

Derek checks Stiles’ medication, making sure there was nothing he needed to take periodically as post-operation meds, but finds that the hospital gave him nothing but painkillers and things if he got a fever or a bad reaction. Unlike Melissa, Stiles won’t have many hospital check-ups following his operation, but Derek can imagine Stiles is going to be forever now effected from this.

Settled on the couch, Derek tries to watch some day-time TV, but finds himself endlessly bored. The mind-numbing programmes and repeating adverts remind Derek why he never watches day-time TV and turns it off shortly after he turns it on. He sits up on the couch, downs the coffee and half wishes for Stiles to be awake. He wants Stiles to recover, but he also wants company, entertainment, and for Stiles to tell him again that he can stay.

His phone rings in his bag suddenly, blaring like an alarm in the silent apartment. Derek flies off the couch and dives into his duffel to retrieve the loud object, silencing it before it can wake Stiles up.

"Hello," he answers, pressing it to his ear. He takes a moment to listen into the room next door, relieved to hear Stiles’ still slow beating heart.

"Derek?" He instantly recognises Scott’s voice. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Derek replies, letting out a breath and running his fingers through his hair. "Sorry. I didn’t want it to wake Stiles."

"Oh, sorry," Scott says. "Is he alright?"

"Yeah, he’s just sleeping."

"My moms been sleeping too. Operations must be tiring."

Derek nods, "Evidently."

"So, how’s San Fransisco, man? What’s Stiles’ apartment like?" Scott asks.

"I haven’t really had a chance to see it yet," Derek replies. "Stiles’ apartment is. . . small and messy, but it’s nice."

"Get Stiles to take you out when he’s awake, I heard San Fransisco is amazing."

"Yeah, I will," Derek murmurs. "How’s the pack? How’s your mom?"

"She’s good, they’re all good. Mom’s exactly like Stiles, sleeping since she got back from the hospital. I know as soon as she wakes up she’s going to be moving around and wearing herself out when she’s meant to be recovering," Scott explains. "The packs good though, man. Everything’s in order, you don’t have to worry— you don’t have to worry about _us_. We’re all fine."

"Good," Derek breathes. "Good."

He’d been worried, wolf anxious at the prospect of there being 400 miles between him and his pack, him and the danger possibly targeting them or the town. The pack bonds are strained and stretched, making him feel detached. He’s never been this far from his entire pack before, and the only comfort he finds is the breathing human in the room next door.

"You have nothing to worry about, Derek," Scott says. "If we need anything, you know we’ll call. All you need to do is take care of Stiles."

"I will," Derek replies, and it sounds ominously like a promise. "Hopefully he’ll wake up soon."

"Don’t bank on it," Scott laughs. "If Stiles is anything like he used to be, he can sleep for literally days if he’s tired enough. You don’t want to be with him when it’s insomnia season though, man."

Derek rolls his eyes.

"I’m gonna go, dude. Gonna pick Isaac up from work in a bit. Take care of Stiles and rest up. This is kind of like a holiday for you, so enjoy it!"

Derek rolls his eyes again. "Good bye, Scott."

He ends the call and slumps back.

He gets up after a moment and creeps towards the bedroom, opening the door and looking in. Stiles has moved, now splayed on his back scores the bedsheets. He wonders if Stiles should be sleeping for this long, if it's actually any good for him to do so. He edges towards the bed and touches his forehead with the back of his hand. It's cool and healthy, as his breathing is relaxed and slow. _Nothing to worry about_ , Derek decides.

He walks back out but leaves the door open. He drops back down on the couch, and he doesn't know how long he sits in silence for before he sits up again and swipes the first book closest to him off the table.

 _The Great Gatsby_. It's a vintage, battered beyond belief version of the Fitzgerald classic that Derek, surprisingly, has never read before.

He opens the first page and begins.

 

"Enjoying that?"

Derek jumps. He was so engrossed in the book he didn’t hear the moment Stiles' heartbeat changed, the slow process of him waking up from his deep, long recovery sleep.

Derek looks over his shoulder at the sleep-rumpled man in the doorway, who's grin is slumped with sleep but soft and genuine.

"Yeah," he says lamely. "I've never read any Fitzgerald before. It's really good."

Stiles' eyes widen and he pushes off the doorframe he'd been leaning against. He sways and stiffly makes his way to the couch, and when Derek starts to get up, he flashes him a warning _I can do this myself_ glare.

"I'm surprised," Stiles says, sitting beside him slowly. He's stiff and evidently sore, and Derek wonders if he is still allowed to reach out and take his pain. Now Stiles is coherent and not cloudy with pain meds, what are the boundaries? "I would have never guessed you hadn't read any of Fitzgerald's works. Not even _The Beautiful and Damned_?"

Derek shakes his head, folding the corner of his page down, and only doing so because there is already a existing line of a crease there from someone doing it previously. He places it down on the pile he got it from on the coffee table and says, "I'm surprised too. I'm enjoying it though."

"Of course you are," Stiles smiles. "What's the time? I didn't look at my clock when I got up."

Derek looks at his phone. "Eight-thirty," he reads. "You slept for only a couple of hours."

Stiles eyes widen, "No way."

Derek nods. "Yes way."

"Shit. What a proper grandpa-nap!" Stiles whispers, covering his hand with his mouth in literal shock. He chuckles, looking like a mischievous child who got away with a practical joke. "Oops. Sorry, man. I completely left you alone, you must have been so bored."

"It's fine, you obviously needed the sleep," Derek replies. "I phoned Scott and read a book while you were out. I was fine."

"Have you eaten?" Stiles asks. "I don't know how much I've got in the kitchen to make food."

"You have nothing," Derek replies, and he hopes his voice shows disapproved authority, but he has a bad feeling it came out in what Isaac calls his 'disappointed dad voice'.

"Shit, sorry," Stiles apologises to him again, running his fingers through his hair stressfully. It makes the already unruly strands stand on end, like he's been electrocuted.

"It's fine, Stiles," Derek repeats. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, kinda," Stiles replies. "I know a great place that do the _best_ Chinese ever, and they do deliveries."

Derek returns the smile Stiles flashes him and says, "Okay. What's the number?"

The Chinese arrives in record time and within half an hour, Derek and Stiles are sitting on his dingy couch in the middle of his living room, chop-sticking food out of cardboard boxes.

After a stretch of silence shared between them, the only sounds being their eating, Derek takes another look around the apartment. He feels far more comfortable now Stiles is awake and up.

"You have an impressive amount of books," he says, for once being the one to break the silence. "I didn't see you read much when you were in Beacon Hills."

Stiles follows his eyes around the small apartment, looking at the books and clutter. "I've always liked reading, I just never had the chance to do much when I was there."

Derek nods. He understands that.

"Perks of working in a library is that your book collection is able to grow," Stiles grins.

"You work in a library?"

Stiles nods. "I need to call them actually, tell them I can't come back to work for a few days."

"For a few weeks," Derek corrects, frowning. "Stiles, you can't go back to work after a 'few days'. You need time to recover properly."

Stiles sighs. He nods but he doesn't look happy about it.

"If you're worried about what your boss is going to say, it's their duty as your employer to give you leave if you've been hospitalised," Derek says. "Are you worried they won't let you have a few weeks off?"

"No," Stiles shakes his head, "It's not that at all. They're super cool there and regardless, I have loads of holiday to use up. I just. . . I don't know. I hate sitting around and doing nothing. I've never liked it."

"Well, you need to recover so you're just going to have to deal with it."

Stiles looks up at him, mouth shaped into a little surprise 'o'. "You haven't changed a bit."

Derek raises an unamused eyebrow.

Stiles giggles, "Sourwolf."

Derek rolls his eyes but he can barely contain his smile himself. "I thought I told you to never call me that."

Stiles grins, full teeth and cheeky. "When have I ever done what you tell me?"

"I thought you’d grown up in the last five years."

"Nope," Stiles quips, scooping up a mouthful of Chinese. He smiles, lips closed and with cheeks-full of food. He resembles scarily like a chipmunk and Derek thinks the sight is _adorable_. "Just talk less."

"Talk less?"

"I assume I do," Stiles shrugs. "New people I’ve met have told me I’m quiet."

Derek frowns. He can’t imagine Stiles ever being quiet or _not_ talkative, but now he thinks about it, Stiles has been more quiet. Granted, he has been asleep for 75% of the time Derek’s been around him, but when he’s been awake, Stiles seems to lack his ability and will to ramble and fill the silence. Instead, he seems to find a sort of comfort in it, much like Derek used to.

"How long are you staying for?" Stiles asks, and if it wasn’t for his casual, kind tone, Derek would have been punched with worry.

"However long you need me for," Derek replies.

"Don’t you have work?"

"I spoke to Parrish before we left and he told me I can take all the time off I need to take care of you," Derek explains.

"Oh," Stiles murmurs, looking down at his half-eaten Chinese. "That’s nice of him."

Derek nods.

"Thank you," Stiles says, looking up and smiling. "For coming here with me and staying. You. . . you didn’t need to do that for me."

"I told you, you’re pack, Derek parrots.

Stiles’ smile falls a notch. He nods, looking down again and fiddles for a moment with his chop-sticks, aimlessly stabbing the remaining noodles and Chinese in the carton. He clears his throat with a sudden, deep cough and says, "I’m. . . uh, going to go to bed. I know I’ve just got up, but—"

"No," Derek shakes his head. "You should rest. You should be resting. Do you need anything?"

"I’m gonna take some pain meds," Stiles replies, placing his carton down on the coffee table. He winces when he stands, limbs stiff and movements hesitant. Derek reaches over without thinking and places his hand on Stiles’ bare arm, feeling the soft skin beneath, draining the pain quickly.

Stiles smiles, "Thanks."

He gets up when the veins fade, movements smoother though still slow and wary. He heads into the kitchen and comes back out a moment later with a glass of water.

"Where did you put my bag?" He asks.

"Here," Derek reaches and scoops it out from under the coffee table. Stiles nods in thanks and gathers a handful of tablets in the bowl of his palm.

"I hate this," Stiles sighs after he's swallowed them down with a large gulp of fresh water. "I feel pathetic."

"You look pathetic."

Stiles' head snaps towards him, mouth agape. He doesn't look pathetic, he looks wounded and adorable, but Derek felt the need to deadpan the opposite.

"You. . . How _rude_!" He gasps, face growing a smile. "Derek Hale, you asshole!"

Derek raises an eyebrow as Stiles continues to carry on.

"Kick a man while he's down, why don't you!" Stiles laughs, shaking his head and drinking the rest of the water. With the glass drained, he drops back down on the couch. "I don't look pathetic."

"You do when you pout like that," Derek replies.

"I'm not pouting!"

"Sulking, then."

"Not sulking either," Stiles huffs, but he's smiling.

Derek is smiling too, he can't stop it.

Stiles looks up at him and chuckles, "Alright, bunny teeth, I'm going to bed. Let me grab you some blankets and pillows," Stiles begins to get up, and then he pauses mid rise, looking back at Derek with wide eyes. "Wait— what did you sleep on last night?"

Derek blinks. "The couch?"

"Oh my, God," Stiles groans, rising fully. "I am such a poor host. Let me grab you some bedding, man. You can't sleep on the couch without a pillow and a blanket."

"I was fine—"

"Shh," Stiles hisses, waving a hand in dismissal. "I'm making you sleep on my thrift shop couch, the least I can do is give you a damn pillow and blanket."

He goes out of the room and enters a minute later, arms full of blankets and a pair of pillows. Derek jumps up and takes them from him before he can hurt himself even more. "Thanks," he breathes, smiling.

Derek drapes the blanket across the couch and piles the two puffy pillows at one end. Stiles watches him with a smile. He looks tired and pale, worn down but somehow, he also looks relaxed, content. Derek doesn’t want to see Stiles anything _other_ than that: relaxed and content.

"Are you sure you’re going to be alright in here?" He asks.

Derek nods. "I’ve been sitting there for four hours reading. I’ll be fine for the night."

"It is surprisingly comfortable," Stiles muses, nodding. "I’ve slept on it hundreds of times."

A moment of silence passed between them, broken by Stiles’ wide, sleepy yawn.

"Right, I’m going to go to bed now. If you need anything, either wake me up or try and look for it yourself. It’s a small apartment, if I’ve got it it will be easy to find," Stiles jokes. "I don’t know if you already know, but the bathroom is there. Use whatever you want in there, what’s mine is yours— apart from my toothbrush, obviously, because that’s just gross, man."

Derek chuckles. "Okay. Separate toothbrushes, shared everything else."

Stiles nods, laughing too. He blinks slowly, and Derek knows he is minutes away from sleep.

"Go to bed, Stiles," he says.

Stiles leaves with a smile and Derek watches his retreating back like a child watching his mother walk away from him on their first day of school. He wants to tell Stiles to come back, to pull him into his chest and trap him in his arms. He wants to bury his nose in his unruly hair that Derek can’t decide if it needs a cut or actually looks alright.

The tiredness that had been resting at bay comes clear within moments, and suddenly Derek feels the exhaustion from the past days stress and six hour drive there. He drops down on the couch and rubs his eyes. He kicks off his shoes so he can recline his legs on the cushions and settle back, pulling the blanket over him. He’s still in his clothes, but he doesn’t have the energy to get changed into the pyjamas he packed.

He’s asleep the moment he closes his eyes.

 

The next morning, Derek can’t take the sight of the empty cupboards and fridge anymore and decides to go shopping. It’s no wonder why Stiles looks so thin when his fridge looks like it hasn’t been restocked in months. He checks in on Stiles, the young man still sleeping soundly in the middle of his nest of pillows and blankets. Derek takes any lingering pain he can, watching Stiles relax even more into the blankets and let out a sigh of relief. He writes Stiles a brief note to tell him he’s gone out to get food, just incase Stiles wakes up while he’s out and assumes he’s gone home.

He heads out, relieved to find his car in-tacked and not vandalised. He’s heard things about San Fransisco and was half convinced he was going to come out to find his windows smashed and paint scratched. However, he is pleasantly surprised to find his car without a single touch on it and climbs in with high hopes. He quickly Google’s local shops and supermarkets and sets out. After half an hour of getting lost (to which he will _not_ tell Stiles about), he finally parks outside a small store and goes inside. Considering Stiles has nothing in his cupboards apart from coffee, sugar and about four bits of pasta, Derek can buy without concern for possibly buying too much. Stiles needs stock up on _everything_ , so Derek grabs a trolley and snatches everything off the shelves he knows Stiles likes and what he’ll need.

Walking around feels surreal. He doesn’t do a lot of shopping at home, and if he does, he either has Erica or Lydia with him, and therefore the girls are the ones doing the shopping and Derek is just pushing the trolley. It feels weird and almost foreign to be the one scanning the isles and choosing the food. He gets meats, juices, breads and pastas. He grabs more fruit than he needs, remembering briefly that Scott used to say Stiles’ favourite fruit are peaches, so he grabs plenty of those. He buys all the food he thinks Stiles might need or like, making sure to buy plenty of dinners and breakfasts. Stiles is thinner than he was when he left, which makes Derek worry he isn’t taking care of himself and the empty cupboards are a clear answer to that. He knows what Stiles is like: he gets too easily distracted by things, drawn in, overtaken with thoughts and forgets about necessities like eating and sleeping. Part of him had hoped Stiles would grow out of that, but at the same time, he’s kind of relieved he hasn’t because that means Stiles hasn’t changed _that_ much without them all.

He pays for the shopping with his own money: he has plenty of it, and he hopes Stiles won’t ask where the food came from as he knows he won’t like Derek spending his own cash on it.

He lugs the bags back to his car and stuffs them in the boot. He’s bought enough to feed the pack, but he is literally stocking whole cupboards full. He knows when he leaves that Stiles won’t go to shopping regularly, so he wants to make sure his kitchen is stocked with plenty of food and snacks that will last.

He has too many bags to get them inside in one trip, so he has one in each hand when he first goes inside. As he approaches the door, he hears a heartbeat on the other side and wonders briefly why Stiles is up and downstairs.

His wonder is answered when he unlocks the door and finds someone who is _not_ Stiles.

"Who are you?" The woman asks. She’s standing in front of the door that leads to Stiles’ neighbours apartment. She’s lean and tall, blonde hair styled with beach waves that look messy and unkempt, like she’s just strolled out of the ocean with a surfboard. She’s in a pair of denim shorts and a shirt, her trainers untied and loose on her feet as if she’d just shuffled them on before coming out.

"Derek," he replies, closing the door behind him.

The woman raises an eyebrow. " _You’re_ Derek?" she says. " _The_ Derek? Wow. . . Stiles did not understate."

"Excuse me?" Derek reels. "Who are _you_?"

"Hayley, Stiles’ neighbour," she grins, flashing him a set of white teeth. _Ah_ , Derek think, _so_ this _is the neighbour who is rarely home_. She approaches him with two steps and holds the hand that’s not holding the pile of mail. "Stiles has spoken about you."

Derek shakes the hand. "He has?"

"All good things, don’t worry," Hayley winks. She takes a step back and looks him up and down, and then she frowns. "What are you doing here? Stiles said none of you know where he is."

"He came home for a few days. His friend, Scott, do you know of him?"

Hayley nods. "Of course. Puppy-eyed brother."

"That’s him. His mother was in an accident and was in critical condition. She needed a kidney because both of hers had failed and Stiles was the only match. We got back yesterday."

Hayley’s eyes widened comically as Derek explains, taking up her whole face with two balls of electric blue. "Oh my, God," she breaths. "Stiles. . . is he okay? He—"

"He’s fine. Well, he’s recovering fine," Derek interrupts gently. "He’s upstairs if you want to see him later, but he’s sleeping at the moment."

Hayley nods. "Okay. Thanks," she lets out a heavy breath. "Jesus. That kid. . . does he do anything the easy way?"

"No, definitely not," Derek chuckles. "How well do you know Stiles?"

"We’ve spent a lot of nights talking and drinking, so I know him well despite only living with him for a year and a half," Hayley smiles. "He’s like a little brother to me."

Derek nods and Hayley eyes the shopping bags in his hands.

"Did you go shopping for him?" She asks.

Derek looks down at them before nodding again. "Yeah. The idiot has no food in his apartment."

Hayley barks a laugh. "For someone so smart he really is useless in some departments," she pauses for a moment, voice taking on a tone of awe, "You really care about him, don’t you."

Derek is about to reply with parroted verse of _of course, he’s pack,_ but he reminds himself that Hayley doesn’t know about packs and wolves, and that for one, the answer doesn’t seem to fit. It doesn’t sit right, because Derek isn’t doing this because Stiles is pack, he’s doing it because he wants to, and because he couldn’t bare to watch Stiles leave them again after being gone so long.

Derek shifts uncomfortably. "I should get this shopping inside, before all the frozen melts."

Hayley smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes Derek fear she knows everything he is feeling, that she’s reading him like an open book and can hear his internal struggle.

"Okay," she nods. "Go feed that skinny boy. He seems to get thinner and thinner every time I see him."

That doesn’t make Derek feel any better, and he quickly nods and dashes up the stairs to Stiles’ apartment. He drops off the bags outside the apartment door before he runs to get the others. It takes three trips, but he manages to get all the bags outside Stiles’ apartment door before opening it and going inside. He dumps the bags in the kitchen and checks in on Stiles. By the sound of the slow heartbeat, he knows Stiles is still sleeping, and the sight of him tangled in his bedsheets confirms it.

Derek leaves him and sets to unpacking the food bags. When all the cupboards and the fridge are full, it’s almost lunch time and Derek’s stomach rumbles in protest to all his hard work. He sets about to make him and Stiles some bacon sandwiches, briefly wondering if Stiles would be woken up by the smell.

He wondered right.

Just as he is dishing them up, the whole apartment fills with the smell of fresh bacon and Stiles comes stumbling in a moment later, mumbling about something 'smelling good'.

Derek spins around and hands him a plate. "Bacon sandwich."

Stiles’ face takes on a sleepy smile as he looks down at the snack. He hums, and then it drops and he looks up, confused. "Where did the bacon and bread come from?"

"I went shopping," Derek replies, grabbing his own plate and pushing Stiles into the living room. "You had no food, you idiot."

"Oh," Stiles says. "Thanks, I think. I’m not an idiot, though."

"Yes, you are," Derek deadpans, making them both sit on the couch. Stiles seems to be moving easier despite Derek not attempting to pull any pain yet, so Derek hopes that means he’s on the mend. " _Idiots_ don’t have food in their cupboards and flesh on their bones."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I had food—"

"You had nothing apart from some coffee and sugar," Derek interrupts. "How the hell do you survive on your own?"

Stiles’ eyes harden. "Hey, big guy, watch your fucking words. I’ve survived on my own for five damn years, okay?"

Derek blinks, and then realises Stiles is right: he has no idea what the last fives years have been for Stiles, but he knows he’s still here and that makes him strong. Derek shouldn’t push like that.

"I’m sorry," he apologises.

Stiles looks at him for a moment, brown eyes wide and vulnerable, losing their coldness and becoming soft. "No," he says, shaking his head. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. You’re right."

"No, I’m not," Derek replies.

"Jesus," Stiles laughs, rubbing his face. "We’re so damn soppy. Is this what growing up is about? Becoming soft and squishy?"

"No. It’s just us."

They scoff down the bacon sandwiches in no time and as Derek is washing up the plates, he says, "I met Hayley."

"My neighbour Hayley?"

Derek nods. "She seems nice."

"She is, I had no idea she was home though," Stiles replies.

"She was worried when I told her why I was here," Derek explains. "Did you not tell her you’d come back to Beacon Hills?"

"She was in Egypt when I left," Stiles shrugs. "Figured I’d be back before her and not in recovery."

"Why was she in Egypt?"

"She travels. She does journalism and goes to all these different places," Stiles says as he comes up to Derek’s side and dries the now clean dishes.

"That sounds fun," Derek muses. "Why don’t you ever go travelling with her?"

"I’ve done travelling," Stiles shrugs. "Now I’m here, and I’m happy here."

They finish the dishes and Derek grabs a beer from the fridge while pouring Stiles a glass of orange juice - neither of them think it will be wise for Stiles to drink while he’s on strong pain meds. Derek doesn’t know how they get there, but he finds himself sitting sideways against the large floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, legs outstretched to the side and crossed, shoulder pressed into the glass and facing Stiles, who is leaning against the opposite frame a space away from him. Stiles’ own legs are folded and knees against his chest. His head is cradled back against the window pane and he’s looking out over the dark back garden and view that is a skyline of night lights.

And Derek just can’t look away. Stiles is as breathtaking as the view. In the low light of the apartment, the glistening glow from outside cast shadows on his face, defining his sharp cheekbones and darkening his eyes from his long lashes. His lips are open a fraction, bow-shaped and soft looking. Derek wants to run his fingers over them, along the line of his jaw and up into the mess of his hair. He wants to explore with his hands under his t-shirt, to run his palms along the stretch of his torso and the slope of his shoulders, to feel his bony legs against his own and his heartbeat under his skin. He wants to hold Stiles and never, ever let him go. To breathe in his scent like the finest oxygen and drown in the endless whiskey pools of his eyes.

At that moment, those familiar and stranger brown eyes slide from the window view to Derek.

"What are you looking at?" He whispers, voice quiet.

Derek stares for a moment longer. "Nothing."

Stiles raises an unconvinced eyebrow but smiles, sipping his juice.

"I was a mess when I left Beacon Hills," he says a minute later, voice hushed as if he’s speaking to himself. "You were right. I wasn’t surviving. I wasn’t living. I was just. . . existing."

Derek doesn’t know what to say. The confession seems almost like a blurt, like it spilled out of his mouth like word-vomit.

"What happened when you left?" Derek asks, because if he’s being honest, he feels he has a right to ask. Stiles was a large part of his and the packs lives, and despite him having every right to leave, he did just walk away from them all. Derek has every reason and want to know what Stiles has been doing, where he’s been and how he’s been. He only knows as far as this apartment and Hayley downstairs, and that was only in the last year and a half. Three and a half years of Stiles’ life, possibly the most memorial times, are unknown to Derek, foreign land he has yet to explore.

"I got a bus straight to Phoenix," Stiles begins, fiddling with his half-empty glass. He isn’t looking at Derek anymore, but instead down at his lap. "I rented an apartment with my dads life insurance and savings. Melissa used the value of the house to pay for the hospital bills so everything my father owned in the bank was mine. I. . . I was a mess, Derek. I don’t know how I survived it, but I was broken. I barely ate or slept, and I spent all of my time sitting on this fire escape outside my window. I smoked like a fucking chimney. I don’t think there was a time that I didn’t have a cigarette in my mouth for months after I left. I was just so _lost._

"I had this neighbour called Evan, who was a college drop-out, who’d sit outside with me in the evenings and smoke too. I don’t know why he did it, I wasn’t much company at the time, but he came out every night and sat there till stupid hours in the morning, just rambling and talking like I used to do. When I told him why I was there he told me to get a job, something to distract myself during the day, but I didn’t listen. I don’t know when we started getting close, or if we were even close at the time, but after six months of living there Evan’s lease was up on his own apartment so I said he could move into mine. I had a spare room so it wasn’t going to be difficult. He found me, a whole year after I’d left Beacon Hills, passed out on the kitchen floor when he got home from work one night. I must have blacked out and knocked my head on the worktop because I had a small cut on my forehead. He called me an idiot, shoved a granola bar down my throat and told me if I didn’t get my head out of my ass I was going to kill myself. I don’t know if it was the realisation from the fall or Evan shouting at me like I was hurting _him_ , but something made me realise that what I was doing was wrong.

"Evan talked about how he was saving to travel around America, going to all the states, and he told me I should go with him. So, I got a job as a Barista at a local cafe and saved with him. It took a year, but eventually I had the money and we bought a car and literally drove to every state in America. It was. . . amazing. I don’t know how to describe it other than absolutely amazing. I sent Scott postcards from every place we went to, but I don’t imagine he showed you them.

"When we got back to Phoenix, it’d only been three years since my dad but somehow it felt like a lifetime ago. Evan announced not long after we got back that he was going to go back to college in the fall. He said he wanted to go to NYU because that had been his favourite place from our trip. He was sorry, and I honestly couldn’t have been more happy for him. He was my best friend at the time, he still is, and he was as lost as me when we first met- just a bit more emotionally stable.

"I wanted to come back _so bad_ when Evan went to New York. You have to believe me, I wanted to, but. . . but I was finally doing so _well_ and everything didn’t feel like a never-ending nightmare anymore. So when Evan left, I came back here because for some reason, it was _my_ favourite place we visited. I got this apartment and my job at the library and a year and a half later, Scott phoned me about Melissa," he stops and looks up at Derek. "And now you know everything."

Derek blinks. "Wow. Uh. . ."

Stiles chuckles, sipping his juice. "It’s a lot to take in, I’m sure."

Derek nods dimly. So that is who Evan is, a boy who helped Stiles not starve and brain himself when no one else was there for him. Stiles didn't say anything about Evan being a lover, or anything more than a brotherly friend. It makes Derek feel both relieved and guilty. Relieved that Evan isn't an ex or current lover and that Stiles had someone who sounds kind and incredible to help him through his grief, but also guilt for being happy Stiles has found no one to love and that it was him or their pack that was there for Stiles in his time of need. Pack are meant to take care of each other, to be there and have a relationship stronger than family. And despite Stiles being the one who left, they should have followed him to make sure he was okay. For five years, Derek allowed himself to live with the thought that Stiles could be dead or hurt and he did _nothing_. At the time, he thought he was doing what Stiles would have wanted, but maybe what Stiles really wanted _was_ for someone to run after him, to show they cared.

"I'm sorry we didn't do more for you after. . . After your father died," Derek says, and the guilt tastes like toxins on his tongue, burning and poisonous. "We're your pack. We should have been there for you."

Stiles shakes his head. "I left. I was the one who walked out on your guys. You guys didn't abandon me, I knew where you were the whole time I was gone. It was _me_ who didn't come back--"

"Because you didn't feel welcome. Stiles, we made you feel that way--"

"I felt that way about everyone, Derek. And it wasn't anything on you, it was me. It was my insecurity that by leaving, being an asshole and cutting you off was unforgivable. It was _me_ who thought I wasn't welcome back, not anything you guys did."

"You could have come back," Derek whispers, and he so desperately wants to call it _home_ but it's not Stiles' home anymore.

"I know," Stiles smiles sadly. "But I didn't know that then, I didn't _believe_ it. Maybe I didn't want to believe it. Maybe it was a psychological way of me stopping myself going back, protecting myself from being reminded of my dad. I don't know, but I just knew I couldn't go back. Something was stopping me."

Derek nods, but he doesn't know what to say.

"Why did you come back when Scott called?" He asks after a long stretch of silence. Stiles looks up from where his gaze had dropped to his feet. "Why did you decide to come back then?"

"Because Scott needed me. Every time Scott told me what was happening in Beacon Hills he always told me that I didn't need to come back to help, that you were okay. When Scott phoned me that night, he told me he wasn't okay. He'd never asked me to come back before, but that night he asked, so I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That it was time."

 

Over the next week, they don’t do much. Stiles chills on the couch or walks around the apartment, becoming more angsty by the moment of being locked inside his own home. Derek cooks breakfast, lunch and dinner because he doesn’t want Stiles to stress himself or strain his body. The stitches heal perfect, the pain and stiffness easing as he recovers quick and easy. Derek can’t help but listen in when Stiles is on the phone to Scott and Melissa, laughing and talking. Derek wonders how many phone calls they’ve had in the last five years that Scott has never told the pack about, that he did away from them so they didn’t hear who was on the other end.

Stiles phones Evan once and Derek knows they text. He doesn't listen in, but he catches brief parts when he walks close enough to hear it naturally. The point he focuses on is that Stiles smiles and laughs when he's on the phone to Evan, and every now and then, his eyes will slide over to Derek and his smile will widen even more.

Hayley comes up to see Stiles and the pair show Derek that any wonders of romance between the two are ridiculous, because there is not a romantic breath between the two _at all_. Hayley treats Stiles like a younger brother, ruffling his hair and insulting him with ease. Their relationship reminds Derek much like his own with Cora and Laura, built on sarcasm, banter and insults. Their relationship is structured with wit and humour instead of hugs and kisses, much like Derek had with his sisters. He wonders, if Cora ever came home from Washington, if they'd be the same as they were when they were teenagers.

Hayley tells them about Egypt and the land she saw, the sights and the people who made her trip worth while. She goes on about the places she’s going next: India for two months to live with a family, then flying to Uganda for another two months to work with children in a village and build homes. She tells Stiles she’s going to come back between the two, but the look on Stiles’ face says he knows she won’t and he doesn’t seem too bummed about it. Derek is starting to decide that Hayley is one of those people you want to hate for being so spontaneous and confident and helpful in their travels, but they’re so nice and genuine that you just _can’t_.

They spend every evening sitting by the window, eating a meal or drinking beer (orange juice for Stiles). Derek is beginning to believe it is the most peaceful spot in all of San Fransisco, a step out of the lively circle but just close enough to watch it. Most of the time he isn’t even looking at the view, but at Stiles.

He doesn’t tell Stiles anything about his feelings, about his wants and his needs between them. He doesn’t hint to Stiles that he likes him anymore than a pack member when all Derek really wants to do is kiss him swollen and squeeze him till he pops. He can’t say anything though. The emotional vulnerability of doing so is almost as terrifying as leaving Stiles now. The rejection would punch too hard, blow him like a grenade and he won’t be able to recover from it. Somehow, _not_ knowing is becoming more bearable than the idea of knowing. For years Derek has concealed his emotions towards Stiles to save himself the underlining of loneliness in his life, and the idea of it being taken away is shockingly vulgar.

So, he continues as if it was a casual action of traveling half way across California to care for someone he hasn’t seen or spoken to in half a decade, and somehow, Stiles seems to buy it.

Stiles goes back to work early - much to Derek’s disagreement. He tells the older alpha that he doesn’t want to sit around anymore, that he doesn’t _need_ to sit around and therefore should go back to work. He also declines Derek’s offerings of financial help when Stiles complains about using his holiday up and losing money for rent and food.

"I’ll be fine," Stiles stressed for the millionth time that morning, shoving things into his bag. It’s only been a week since they got there, and Derek just isn’t sure he should be going back. "Working in a library isn’t exactly the most physically demanding job. I phoned Carol last night to tell her I could come in this morning and she said she’d come in too, in case I needed anything. I’ll be fine. It’s only for seven hours."

Derek had insisted driving him instead of letting him get a bus, arguing Stiles can’t physically drive himself and getting the bus is an unnecessary expense. Stiles’ work uniform is a pair of skinny jeans a knitted jumper on top of a white dress shirt. He looks like Spencer Reid without the shaggy hair, Derek decides.

He drops Stiles off at the library at 7:50 that morning, and for the following seven hours, he is utterly bored. Derek doesn’t know what to do with himself while Stiles is gone. Instead of going straight back to the apartment after he drops Stiles off, Derek decides to explore the city. He’s never been to San Fransisco, so he might as well take advantage of the time he has.

He kills a few hours by getting breakfast and wandering around the streets, looking at the houses and seeing the huge differences from Beacon Hills. He wonders around aimlessly in the shops, browsing without really _seeing_ the things on hangers and shelves. He’s back in the apartment by ten. He settles on the couch with a mug of coffee and _The Great Gatsby_ , resuming his read from before. He’s slowly been making his way through it since the first day in San Fran, and he finishes it after three hours of reading.

He picks Stiles up at three, and the young man looks tired despite his bright smile. Derek waits for him by the door in worry that the seven hours of work might have worn him out and he’d need help. Stiles waddles out at 3:06 with a beaming grin and a slight tired sway in his step.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi, are you alright?" Derek asks, concern clouding him.

Stiles nods. "Fucking brilliant. Sore, but so good. Who knew going _back_ to work was going to be as good as this."

"No one would have guessed that, because I don’t think anyone loves their job as much as you love yours," Derek muses. They begin walking to the car, Derek hanging close to Stiles’ side incase the pain overtakes him. He wants to reach out once more, to take the pain but he doesn’t know if he has the right to, nor the privacy to reach out and drain it.

"Did you finish _The Great Gatsby_?" Stiles asks.

Derek nods, rounding the car and unlocking it. "Why?"

After they climb in, Stiles pulls a book out of his bag and hands it to Derek over the console. "I thought you might want to read some more Fitzgerald."

Derek looks down at the copy of _The Beautiful and Damned_ and feels his heart swell.

"Thank you," he murmurs, still looking down at the new copy.

"You’re welcome," Stiles smiles, closing his bag and putting it between his feet. "Carol said I could take home some of the spare inventory and Fitzgerald is a writing legend, so. . ."

Derek feels warm all over. He feels his cheeks glowing ruby red with blush that reaches from the tips of his ears to the skin of his chest.

Stiles cooks dinner for them that night. Derek stands with him in the kitchen while he boils the pasta and makes the Bolognese sauce from scratch with expertise. He makes Derek one of his classic coffees that make Derek’s taste buds dance, gloating at his skills because of his time as a barista in Phoenix. Derek doesn’t mind the gloating if it means he gets to drink the liquid heaven Stiles creates with a sort of second nature.

They eat Stiles’ dinner by the window again, sitting in the same place they always do: backs against the window frame, one shoulder to the window and facing each other. It’s not a wide window, so they’re close and tucked in together to fit, but Derek is certainly not complaining.

"When’s your next shift at the library?" Derek asks, twirling his fork in the spaghetti.

Stiles swallows his mouthful before he replies. "Next Monday. Carol wanted me to have the weekend to 'rest up'."

"Carol is a smart woman," Derek muses.

"She was an English teacher when she was younger," Stiles explains. "I have never met a woman like her. She knows, and no joke, pretty much _every_ book. You can go in there and say a title and she’ll be able to tell you the author, what happened and when it was first published."

Derek’s eyebrows rise on his forehead. "That’s. . . impressive."

Stiles nods, shoving a pile of spaghetti and sauce in his mouth. "She reminds me a lot of my mother."

Derek watches as the emotions wash through Stiles’ face. He watches the nostalgia and grief mix into one, like ink mixing in swirls in water. He watches the way his eyes lose their gaze as he plummets himself back into a moment with his mother. He finds himself lost in watching how Stiles comes back to himself, the barest of smiles hinting the corners of his lips. Derek wonders how many moments like this he’s missed, how he’d missed this feature in Stiles when he had been with them. How had he not noticed the way everything Stiles thinks can be seen processed on his face, how his eyes are the doors to his emotional feelings. He wonders, for a moment, if he didn’t miss it at all, but this in fact a new feature in Stiles. Maybe losing both his parents, losing himself too and finding it again travelling the states made him change, maybe it made him more emotionally vulnerable, more open and free.

"You’re staring again," Stiles says, and Derek knows he is, but he can’t _stop._ "What are you staring at?"

"You," Derek murmurs. "I’m trying to decide how much you’re changed."

Stiles blinks, evidently slightly startled. "And what have you decided?"

"I haven’t yet. I can’t work you out."

Stiles huffs a laugh. "Join the club. I can’t figure you out either."

This time, Derek is startled. He frowns, "There’s nothing to figure out."

Yes, there is," Stiles replies. "There’s a lot about you that doesn’t make sense."

"Like what?"

"Like how you sat at my bedside for eight days after not seeing me for five years, and how you came to San Fransisco voluntarily to care for me," Stiles murmurs, "yet sometimes you look at me like I’ve ripped your world apart and left you bleeding out."

 _Because that’s how I feel when I know I can’t have you,_ Derek thinks.

"Seriously," Stiles goes on, voice quiet, "Huge mixed signals, man."

Derek can feel his heart on the line. He can feel his lungs seize and contract as he struggles to pull a calm breath in.

Stiles is moving suddenly, putting his almost empty bowl down. He shifts so his folded knees are between Derek’s, their faces so close. He’s practically in his lap, sharing breaths.

Stiles looks into his eyes, so deep Derek can feel him reading his soul.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

The vulnerability in his words are so raw, so pained it’s like a punch to Derek’s chest.

"Don’t stop," Derek whispers, and Stiles surges forward.

Their lips connect like a cannon going off. Derek feels the waves roll down his spine like a ball, hitting every vertebrae and jerking him like electric shocks. Stiles’ lips move and slot against his like falling puzzle pieces, fitting together perfectly. Derek can feel the heat of Stiles’ body as he moves closer, the sound of his heartbeat drowned out by the roar of blood rushing to Derek’s ears. Hands cup his cheeks, soft and cold against his skin, framing his jaw and stroking the skin under his eyes. He can’t breathe, his lungs burning from the lack of oxygen reaching them but he doesn’t dare to stop.

Stiles pulls away a minute later, but he doesn’t go far. He rests his forehead against Derek’s, eyes closed and panting. His lips are red and slightly swollen, opening a fraction as he desperately breathes in and out. Derek watches, looking at his fanning eyelashes and angelic angles of his cheekbones. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Stiles this close before, and he can pick out every little imperfection and perfection in his porcelain skin. They share the air between their mouths as they catch their breath.

"I’ve wanted to do that for a long time," Stiles breaths, voice barely above a whisper.

"Same," Derek murmurs back.

Stiles’ eyes open and he pulls back to look at Derek. "Seriously? What was stopping you?"

"I didn’t know you felt the same way," Derek whispers. For once, he doesn’t trust his voice to not reveal the turmoil inside him, the internal battle he’s been fighting for over five years.

"Like I said," Stiles smiles, "Mixed signals."

Derek rolls their eyes and wraps his arms around Stiles’ back, pulling him closer and kissing him again. The same bolt of ecstasy shoots down his spine, hitting every nerve and electrifying him. He feels like a live wire, jerking when Stiles touches him. He feels young and stupid, like he’s sixteen again, desperate for any touches and kisses he can take.

"We should stop," Stiles murmurs against his lips, and Derek’s heart _drops._ Stiles pulls back when Derek freezes against him. "I didn’t mean it like that. We just need to slow down. I can’t. . . I _really_ want to move this to the bedroom but honestly, I don’t think I’ll be much fun with stitches in me side and—"

Derek silences him with a quick kiss, chasing the lingering taste he left. "It’s okay. We can wait."

Stiles smiles. He’s practically sitting in Derek’s lap, so the alpha grabs him with one arm around his legs and the other around his back, and lifts Stiles off the ground. Stiles lets out a small _woosh_ of air as he’s raised in the air, arms clamping around Derek’s neck desperately. He laughs, high and bright and loud, as Derek carries him into the bedroom, dirty bowls abandoned on the floor. _They can wait,_ Derek decides. He doesn’t want to let Stiles go right now.

He places Stiles in the middle of the bed before kicking off his shoes. Stiles climbs to his knees, undoing his jean button and shucking them off his long, thin legs. Derek does the same, climbing in the bed in just his t-shirt and boxer briefs and pulling the blankets over them. He wonders when he was given the right to climb into Stiles’ bed, half naked, but pushes the thought away when Stiles cuddles into him.

He hums, pressing his face into Derek’s neck. "You smell good."

Derek huffs a laugh and turns onto his side, arm extended out so Stiles can rest his head on it. They face each other, the only light in the room being the streaks from the street lights outside, casting shadows around them.

"Well," Stiles starts, "That escalated quickly."

Derek rolls his eyes. He feels tired now he’s laid down, but also content. The room smells like Stiles, like cinnamon and trees, and it calms him like no other smell has ever done.

"I can’t believe we’ve been practically living together fo a week and neither of us had the balls to do anything," Stiles muses, giggling slightly.

Derek rolls his eyes _again_ , and moves his hand so it’s cupping Stiles’ cheek, feeling the cool skin under his own, grounding him like an anchor. That’s what Stiles is to him: an anchor and so much more.

He kisses him again, he chases his lips and dances his tongue in his mouth. Stiles kisses back, soft and slow, nothing like the animalistic desperation that lead the kiss they shared in the living room. This one is slower, content, more relaxed, like they know they have no reason to rush into it, no fear of the moment being ripped away from them.

When they separate, they lay in silence. It isn’t awkward, or tense, or suffocating, but falls into place like it belongs there. Derek closes his eyes and takes in the moment, takes in the smells and the sound of their heartbeats and the _feel_ of Stiles curled against him, so small but so perfect against his chest, like a kitten.

Derek doesn’t know how much time passes before he hears Stiles whisper into the dark.

"I don’t want you to go."

It sounds so fragile, so _scared_ that Derek wants to reassure him that he’ll stay forever, but he can’t. Not yet, anyway. He doesn’t know where he stands. So much has changed in the last fifteen minutes that he can’t find the stable ground underneath him anymore.

"I don’t want to go," Derek whispers, because that he knows. He doesn’t want to leave Stiles. He doesn’t want to go through the endless and consuming weight and ache of Stiles leaving again, of them being separated. It was unbearable when Derek didn’t know Stiles felt the same back, but now he _knows_ , he doesn’t think he’ll survive the separation. And he hates that he’s allowed himself to get this attached, this caught up in the whirlwind of his emotions that so, so much is now uncertain."Would you ever come back to Beacon Hills?" He asks, because he _has to ask_. "Have you ever thought about it?"

"All the time," Stiles whispers. "I wanted to come back for so long, and I still do sometimes. I miss you all so, so much, I can’t even describe it. But I can't go back, Der. I don’t think I ever can. I can't live in that town, it has nothing for me but gravestones and bad memories."

Derek nods.

A moment of silence passes through them.

"Are you mad?"

"What? No. Of course not. Stiles, I would never be mad about something like that. You. . ." he has to think about what he can say, what he _needs_ to say to Stiles to show that his distance isn’t personal, "After what happened— after _all_ that’s happened to you, no one expects you to come running back with open arms."

He can see the tears glistening in Stiles’ eyes, shining like literal pools and shimmering waves. A single tear escapes, rolling down his temple and dripping off onto the pillow. Derek watches it go, heart aching.

"I’m sorry," Stiles whispers, voice fragile as his face crumbles. "I’ll visit, I promise. And I’ll text and call you all, the whole pack, but I can’t _be_ there—"

"Stiles, you don’t need to be there to be in the pack," Derek interrupts. "Lydia, Scott and Boyd have been away at college for the last four years. Allison lives in France and Jackson lives in London. You don’t need to be in town— hell, you don’t need to be in the same _country_ to be pack."

Stiles’ eyes fall closed. "I just. . . I want to be with you all. I want to be with _you_."

"Then I’ll move to here. I’ll move to San Fransisco. If you want to be with me, then I’ll come to you," Derek says.

Stiles’ eyes flick open, shimmering again. They huge and vulnerable and bleeding emotion like an open wound.

"You. . ." his voice cracks painfully. He pauses to lick his lips, eyes searching Derek’s face, as if looking for a fault or hint of regret. "You’d do that? For me? You’d come all this way, away from your pack?"

"I would," Derek nods, voice firm and strong. He’s sure, he knows he is. He just needs Stiles to say _yes_.

"But, the pack. You’re their alpha, you can’t live out of town. Beacon Hills is your territory, you need to—"

"The territory is shared with Scott. The pack have two alphas," Derek explains, and then he remembers something Lydia said to him when he was sitting by Stiles’ bedside, all those days ago in the hospital when the future was so unknown. "They need me, but they can survive without me if they needed to. San Fransisco isn’t far, just a car journey away."

"Are you for real?" Stiles asks, and Derek hates how small his voice is, like he’s scared the rejection is coming. "Would you really do this?"

"I’ve wanted to do it for a long time," Derek replies.

"Is that why you never told me? You never told me you liked me because you didn’t want me to feel like I had to stay?"

Derek nods. "I didn’t. . . it felt selfish to give you a decision to make about leaving. You wanted to go, and you needed to have a clear exit."

Stiles is smiling, a soft, watery smile that is so beaming it’s blinding. "I always knew you were soft and squishy on the inside."

Derek rolls his eyes, beginning to roll onto his back when Stiles sits up, hovering over him so their chests are pressed together. He kisses him, emotion as strong on his tongue as the lingering bitter bite of coffee. Derek kisses back, arms winding around his waist to pull them closer together as Stiles’ hands cup and frame his face, holding him.

"Are we really doing this?" Stiles whispers against his lips, breathless. "Are you really coming here for me?"

Derek pulls back enough to be able to look Stiles in the eyes. "If you let me. I want to do this, I want to be with you and if that means coming to San Fransisco, then I will do it. Do _you_ want to do it?"

Stiles smiles and nods quickly.

"But, I have one condition," Derek adds.

Stiles’ eyebrows pinch inwards slightly, but his smile doesn’t falter. "Anything."

"We’re getting a new couch."

"What?" Stiles yelps. "What’s wrong with my couch?"

"After laying in this bed, I now realise now uncomfortable it really is," Derek states.

Stiles chuckles, looking down for moment. When he meets Derek’s eyes again, their confident and shining. "Why don’t we get a new apartment all together?"

"Do you want that?"

"Well, this place is kind of small, and I couldn’t fit the whole pack in here if they ever came to visit," Stiles says. "We could get somewhere that is _ours._ "

"Would you be okay with moving?" Derek asks.

"I think so," Stiles confesses. "I’d miss the window, but I could live without it."

Derek chuckles, shaking his head. "We don’t need to decide anything now. There’s no rush."

"Yeah," Stiles smiles. "No rush."

No rush at all.

_Everything has grown_  
_Skyline changes_  
_Time where have you flown?_  
_Now all these years have passed us by  
_ _And every tear has left your eyes_

_And I hope you're better off_  
_And your heartbeat never stopped_  
_Every scar has done healing  
_ _And you found your Eden_

**_Everything Has Grown, Colouring_ **

_— fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed :) <3


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